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Barbara Brooks

Barbara Brooks is retired and spends time bird watching and travels to do so. She enjoys baking, working on her house, riding. She doesn’t do “nothing” well. She hates computers but has to use them to submit poetry and email as she hates phones also. Her computer doesn’t have a TNR 15 pt font, which is distressing to her. She lives quietly with a greyhound, also retired.


The beech tree sends out buds wrapped
in tissue-thin brown envelopes that open
nightly until the soft, green letter of spring
is revealed. I look forward to these letters
just as I do the ones from home.

As the year ages, the brown envelopes
are long lost to the ground. Winter’s wind
ruffles the stiff parchment leaves,
pulling on them as I wait.

Permission to Look

 Quail Hollow Dr.

Chickadees and wrens are fussing,
glancing up. There it sits. A barred owl’s back.
It twists its head to gaze, eyes
deep as infinity, giving me permission to look.
Blinking, it turns away. Through my scope,
I can see every feather’s edge.

Bunny Road

In the middle of the road, a pile
of something. A wing points to the sky,
one eye still gazes into infinity, the other just a smear
on the white line, yellow bill split in half, talons grasping
an invisible limb. I pull the owl to the side of the road.
I can see every feather’s edge.

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