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Author: James Brush

James Brush is a teacher and writer who lives in Austin, TX. He tries to get outside as much as possible.

P.S.

everyone hoped
we would recover

but we got worse
& stronger

when the daylight wanes
& the moon grins

we are this and that—
blue with time
& forgery

we are trees tangling
between the shadow
& the sky

On March 1st

the grackles opened
like gates in the trees
shadow birds, eyes glistening
you could almost imagine
these noisy shades
abandoning tangible birds,
parking lots and steel dumpsters
in their odyssey through
suburban woods,
clacking and creaking
like machines or clocks
ticking away the last
hoarse seconds of winter.


This is from my book Birds Nobody Loves. It seemed fitting to dig this one out today as we come around to another March. The 13th looms large here as that’s the day Texas started shutting down a year ago. I never would have imagined I’d have to be going to work in a face shield and an N95 a year later.

On another note, I’ve been tinkering with this old site and made new book landing pages that include videos, interviews, collaborations and related stuff. Putting it together, it was surprising to see where these birds have flown the past 9 years. Here’s the page for Birds.

Welcome, March.

Chain Letter

I can’t find New Mexico anymore
west there’s just the Llano Estacado

in my dream airplanes vulture overhead
do you see the fighter planes going by?

this twisted road of cloud and movies
half-remembered could be x-rays winding

through our DNA tying us up in books
we don’t believe in (doesn’t mean

it isn’t happening) we take our complaints
to the bureau of broken drums, pound

the chain link fence around the reactor
it rattles with ice and meltdown