R L Swihart


Snowy

I think it was before the gift exchange. Sis X and Sis Y were finishing 
up their eats (Reel’s chowder and Kasia’s pierogi) and they 
teamed up against me re my latest Instagram passion: 
“apped” birds

“Couldn’t you give up the cartoons?” asked X. “We prefer
the real pics”

“Dunno,” I said. “I’ve had several fans say they appreciate
the art”

“Fans,” said Y, smiling. “Art”

“Followers,” I said, correcting myself. “Yeah, art. Maybe
I can post both types of pics”

“Try that,” said X

*

Snowy had probably showed up in Cypress before Xmas, but I didn’t learn 
about her till Dec 27 and couldn’t get down there till Dec 28. I woke up 
early. Had my coffee and oatmeal (mix-ins: blueberries, walnuts
and flaxseed meal). Set the GPS and clicked the remote

*

Snowy had moved house since yesterday. Instead of the house with the white 
brick chimney, it was the gray-shingled roof with a whirlybird vent. Snowy 
was sitting along the ridge, between the vent and an antenna. I kept
to the edge of the tripod forest steadily growing on either side
of the street

Right profile. Left profile. Straight on. Neck stretched. 
Scratching. Yawning (eyes shut and upper bill
a piercing fang)  


Then I took off to look for the ovenbird (“looks like a thrush
but walks like a pipit”) spotted in Huntington Beach

*

Once I got home I let C out (he quickly peed on his favorite post), washed up, 
grabbed a second Keurig and set about getting some pics of Snowy
(both apped and “natural”) uploaded to Instagram

*

By the end of the week Snowy had 41 “likes” and the following
comments:

Majestic

Love what you do to photos

That first pic is Art

How did it get here?

That’s it. So real I can touch it. Only wish it was
all white:)



Three Days

We drive up to our favorite inn on Moonstone Beach. Finally try the namesake Bar & Grill. 
Finding our special bench, we sit and wait for the big ball to drop. At 4:55 we split a tall 
can of Cali Squeeze (blood orange), gently tapping plastic. We walk back to our room 
to play cards and catch up on the news. "A perfect match for what's in our cups," she says. 
We both laugh

*

She picks a place in the desert: Death Valley. It’s winter and midweek, so we feel like we 
have the place to ourselves. We drive through Badwater Basin twice (elated by the lowest 
point). We yell Antonioni as loud as we can from Zabriskie Point. Ridge-walk Eureka 
Dune, where the wind curls a nice little "nado" of sand

*

Now home I get up super early and light a fire. I continue three-apy 
with a series of texts:

1. I go with the canon but read it two ways:

Then I said, I shall die in my nest, and I shall multiply 
my days as the sand (Job 29: 18)

Then I said, I shall die in my nest, and I shall multiply 
my days as the phoenix (Job 29: 18)

2. I go off road: 

Let us consider that wonderful sign [of the resurrection] which takes place in Eastern lands, 
that is, in Arabia and the countries round about. There is a certain bird which is called 
a phoenix. This is the only one of its kind, and lives five hundred years. And when the time 
of its dissolution draws near that it must die, it builds itself a nest of frankincense, 
and myrrh, and other spices, into which, when the time is fulfilled, it enters and dies 

But as the flesh decays a certain kind of worm is produced, which, being nourished 
by the juices of the dead bird, brings forth feathers. Then, when it has acquired strength, 
it takes up that nest in which are the bones of its parent, and bearing these it passes from 
the land of Arabia into Egypt, to the city called Heliopolis 

And, in open day, flying in the sight of all men, it places them on the altar of the sun, 
and having done this, hastens back to its former abode. The priests then inspect 
the registers of the dates, and find that it has returned exactly as the five hundredth 
year was completed (First Clement 25: 1 - 5)

3. I read the translator's preface to Tolstoy's Resurrection:

When the big ball is breaking through the palms, I step out onto the patio and stretch, 
thinking about a third way (LXX: Job 29: 18)

R L Swihart came of age in Michigan but has lived in California for the last 30 plus years. He is the author of Matman & Testudo (2018), Woodhenge (2020) and The Last Man (second edition, 2021), all independently published by Gold Across The Water Books. His poems have appeared in The Denver Quarterly, Fourteen Hills, Salt Hill, Rhino and Quadrant, among others.

 
 

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