Birds at Twilight

A black murmuration

of starlings surged like a pepper
storm, shifting shapes
against a pallid blue sky at dusk.

And a slow
procession of flying crows
crossed just above
us, a little crowd of corvids

flapping casually
toward a roost in a fir tree.
We wondered
about the hedge sparrows

hunkering down,
and where do juncos nest?
At twilight, birds
move. They migrate from

light to dark.
We find we're rewarded
when we watch
them as often as we can.

hans ostrom 2024

Birds Today

A fat, orange-bellied robin,

connoisseur of worms, sat

on an old phone line, trilling.

A gray heron, just off a rocky

beach in shallows, staring

down like a chess player

at minnows. Crow, political

birds, gathered and quarreled

like union organizers.

A black-hooded junco

sat on a roof and sternly

clicked at me. And a brown

hedge sparrow ran beside

boxwood, saw me, dove

into the brush. Birds

surveil us, live with us.

They're guardians of a kind.

They have their reasons.

hans ostrom 2024

Great Horned Owls Perch Together and Have a Conversation 01.07.2024 (exp...

Adjacent in Their Lives

She's pleased to think about the birds

on Earth, in canopies and copsds,

on sidewalks and stone statues, back

yards, blue bluffs. Among the refugees

or crapping on the autos of the ultra-rich.

What if, she thinks, someone could show

some images of Earth and as night comes
around, each bird were represented
by one lit-up pixel--so many birds, so
many lights, they would obscure
the night with light. That's what they do

for her--the common birds she sees
around. They shine a light of life
on her when she's brought low
by grayness sometimes in her soul.
Oh, crows and juncos, hawks or jays,
the pigeons in a city, owls out in
the woods. She loves the way they live,

so pointedly, with such sharpness and
no little bit of courage. They sing and caw,
trill and hoot, shriek and burble--hard
to feel much bitterness when she
sees birds--or even thinks of them,
the many, the few, in trees, on dew.
They're strangers and companions,
she and the birds, adjacent in their lives.

Hans Ostrom 2024

They Teach Us to Adapt to Them

Crows, those shadow-shouters,

seem to live in towns amongst thick trees.
Out of their twig-walled cottages,
here they come, gliding, flapping,
bouncing, yelling. They're quiet

during almost all their hours,
but their noise makes you forget
that--like a ratchet-voiced hermit
who bickers with imaginary
invaders, scaring hikers. Crows

maneuver us into adapting to them.
So many creatures do. Given
the billions of us, they all have to.

hans ostrom 2023

Assessing an Evening

What evens at evening?

A dog's barking takes bites
out of quiet. In their buildings,
people cook, drink, take medicine,
talk, give up, rage, look at screens.

Outside, birds have returned
to nests and perches, warming
each other, silencing caw, shriek,
whistle, and song. I decide to use
all this information as evidence

of local equilibrium at dusk,
something that's fine by me.
I'm more weary than optimistic.

hans ostrom 2023

I Spy the Local Eagle

I'm hauling a bin of prunings

and clippings when a bald eagle
flies by low. With one quick
side-glance, it unnerves me.

Such a sure bird, dark and big-
shouldered, yellow-clawed
like a dragon, its wide wings
like a glider's. Those white

head-feathers surround cold
binocular eyes, microscopic
if need be, as when the eagle
parks above water, wings wide,
not moving, not straining, absolute
mastery of air-currents. And
the bird with the wrecking
beak looks down. Sees
the necessary fish. Dives.

Bound to land, I pull
the bin like a large draught horse,
heavy-footed, and a breeze
teases my cap.

hans ostrom 2023

Northern Flicker

Northern flicker, cousin

of the wood-peckers:
It's such an accidental dandy,
with polka dots, a black cravat,
dusk-blue cap, red ornament--
and a subtly curved, bladed beak.

And when it takes off,
a shock of yellow shows
like the lining of cape.

Each early Spring, one flicker
beak-hammers the metal flashing
on our chimney. I'm back!
Such a lonely, obvious bird,
too guileless to annoy.

It likes to blast a high-pitched
shriek and dine on fat bugs
pincered out of trees and posts.

I've never not been thrilled
to see or hear a Northern flicker.

hans ostrom 2023

Pacific Flyway

Last night, 165, 000 birds

flew over this city. Their highway
of air's called The Pacific Flyway.

Ceaseless wings working,
black eyes shining, uncanny
navigation sending signals....

These birds from various species
have no clue how brave they are,
do not have our concept, courage.

They just do what they must do
while we count and measure
in homes and leisure down here.

A few of these birds stopped by
in our garden this Spring & Summer.
Sampled water, suet, seeds, bugs; rested,

sang--maybe picked up grass and twigs
for the summer home. This thought
brings warmth, like holding briefly

in a cupped hand a bird before it flies.

hans ostrom

From a Diary of the Plague Year (8)

Maybe birds like it
that we're nesting in place.
Their song-jabber's intense
this year. Like they're saying
We like the change of pace!

They're out there sampling
the Spring buffet, gathering
building materials, telling
migration jokes, nibbling
on suet pie, passing anti-cat
legislation. Spring

is bird time, citizens. They
are the bosses. If I make it to
next year, I will remember that.


hans ostrom 2020

From a Diary of the Plague Year (3)

Planting yarrow on a hillside--
glimpsed a lone eagle just overhead.
It locked its wings to an updraft,
parked, scanned. I saw its
head tilt toward me. And the eyes.

I won't say I felt hunted. I will
say I stood up and tried to convey
maximum respect. The bright
white of the bird's head flashed
like snow on the Olympic Range,
also visible today--its sharp
peaks bunched together like a
stone chorus. The eagle

coasted in circles--stiff wind
not more than an obedient
servant. Rotating its body
and wings, it was off to complete
rounds, diagnosing the ground.

Predatory, pristine, supreme,
remote, austere: eagle,
above our clotted fretting
down here.


hans ostrom 2020

Regarding Planted Trees

The trees I've planted in several
locales on this West Coast
have their own lives. They
must manage sap, paint leaves,
then cast them off, then more
leaves, blossoms, plums, apples . . .
Birds and insects consider
these trees to be airports

and resorts for summer avian
tourists. From a window
I can see the sensualist fig
tree spread its branches
voluptuously. It produces
shamelessly extravagant leaves.
Months from now it will let
figs swell, harden, soften
lasciviously. Thank God 
I planted that tree, I murmur
sometimes to myself, quietly.


hans ostrom 2020

Their Dominion Today

Always the birds, to haul you back
from history, splendor's clutter,
and your grasping mind. On a steel
bench outside Catherine's Summer
Palace, near a lakely pond,
I get an ear buzzed by a sparrow
on its way to pick over grain
tourists tossed to ducks.

A black and grey raven lands
close on a bench-back, cocks
its head to cast a cold eye
of inquiry. Sun warmth,
oaks, willows, and breeze suggest
Central California to me.
Our landscapes are so much
more similar than our politics
force us not to be. Here

is here. Birds live in their
own geography and polity.
They know they can't eat
history or nest in ideology.
Today is their dominion
outside St. Petersburg.


hans ostrom 2019
revision

Seagulls in Snow

Seagulls in snow step
with authority and bulk
like army officers
from the 18th century.

Their shrieks turn into
mad laughter that shreds
the insulated calm following
flurries. Sometimes

they sit on white
as swans float on water.
In search of food,
they chop at a drift

with heavy yellow
beaks: cutting tools.
The failure of snow
to surge, swirl, pulse,

pound, slap, and leap
like the sea soon bores
them. They jump into
wind then and glide

and fly forthrightly
back to a bay and cliffs
and the raucous, slow
riot of the shore.


hans ostrom 2019

Remember: It's About Adaptability

A gull with a fish in its mouth
flies low. A steller's jay cackles
maniacally as it dives toward a
task. Comes a couple of woos
like wind through a hole in a wall:
a dove. Crows shift their feet
on a street corner as if considering
a labor strike, a starling
gossips at the top of a pole,
and a hummingbird, tough
as a boot, not cute, pierces
awareness. All of this within
an hour's time. Birds seem
to own this place, mortgage
free, indefinitely. They're better
at Earth-living than we.


hans ostrom 2018

Swallows in Sicily

How long have swallows lived
in Sicily? They don't
ask questions like that.

They seem to live in
every town, just like Sicilians.
Their evening flights weave
patters impossible to extract.

They carve and slice the air,
teasing it into life after
its mid-day coma.

Their cries are tuned
to waver between
shriek and whistle.

At nightfall, in Cefalu,
we miss the swallows more
than the sun, more than
the fun we had, if we had
some fun, today.


hans ostrom 2018

Ducks Are Optimists

Paddle a little,
float a lot. Keep
the upper body
still and sturdy.

Where there's water,
there's food. "A
rounded bill will get
it's way." (Old

duck-saying.) Paddle
and float. Sleep well.
Mutter observations.
Migrate with light.


hans ostrom 2018

Bird Reticence

Well, maybe if you
didn't try so hard
to understand birds,
they'd share their
observations with you.

They're very busy, they
know how horrible
humans can be, and
they used to be dinosaurs.
Hence the reticence.


hans ostrom 2018

More Lies

Some more lies, then:
today in a fabricated storm,
clothes fell from the sky.
The tiniest of birds flew
through my eye into my
brain, which dreams of
the bird every night now
in jail: I am. I have been
arrested for false imaginings.
I use state-invoiced spoons
to play the bars like a xylophone
hoping someone will answer.


hans ostrom 2018

Hawks Don't Often Perch That Low

A hawk, bedecked in variegated
brown feathers, had parked on a low,
thick fence post. I walked by on
a muddy road. The hawk ignored

me, also two horses grazing in rain.
What did domestication and the
privileges of an American horse
farm have to do with his carved

beak and mythic talons? Just before
the bird leaned forward, pre-flight,
I squinted to see through rain
and wondered what a hawk's

thought looks like. The gone
hawk left that topic open,
and I went on plodding
down the sodden road.


hans ostrom 2018