The Innisfree Poetry Journal

www.innisfreepoetry.org

by Bill Freedman

Gulled

The way this window looks at sea,

the shore line angling nearer to the north, my right,

the sea appears to flow downhill as it slices in,

though it is calmer, stiller than it would be

if it understood this.

Even the appearance, one living thing’s belief

or misperception should disturb it,

roil its feathers, as wind does sometimes,

before it hunches, looks both ways,

and rises.

Against It

Between these mountains and the sea,

bird on a pole, a little high,

turns into,

tucks its head in wind, its breast,

as though it listens to its heart,

or tests it.

Lifts one wing, 45 degrees at first,

a little less,

then the other at full span.

Not to ride wind, fly,

though it knows it can,

but stand against it,

balance, on one wire leg,

the other bent, do

what it was not born

or meant to do.