Jordan VanDerLinde

The Brightness of the Birds

Through the space in the trees I
find every path I’ve ever taken—
the ones I haven ’t don’t quite matter.

In college Dad took a birding class,
wouldn’t stop telling me the same handful of stories
about trees, birds, an over-enthused professor
who changed him in a long list of little ways.

Today I wish I could remember every bird word
Dad shared—that I’d kept them tucked tightly
in my pockets. Still the softness of the tall trees
the spaces between them, brightens each bird
to my often achy mind.

The wild parrots squawk in my Southern California neighborhood—
never meant to live there, ever resilient, now sustaining
a whole endangered population.

The crows my sister diligently feeds their weekly seeds–
how they return with little trinkets for her, how we find them
waiting at the same time each Friday.

In the soft quiet of the evening, here atop this cemetery hill
I lean against black marble mausoleum and think of you,
the damp air punctuated by the coo of a mourning dove.
I’m here Dad. I ’m listening. The brightness of these birds
reminds me of you, of me,
of everything
still left to see.

Jordan VanDerLinde is a writer living in Los Angeles. Her writing often explores grief, chronic illness, and queerness. Her work most recently appeared in The Gateway Review, and    Tadpole Press. When she’s not writing she is at the mercy of her dogs, Venus and Atlas, and her ball python, Sibelius. Keep up with her on Instagram @jorvanderlinde