WHAT THE BIRD HEARD
by Ted Cleary
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What the bird heard
was something
like a word —
but because a bird’s
a bird
and not a boy
or bard
it’s no surprise she didn’t
heed that kooky frooky crossing
guard.
“The light is red —
the color of dead —
can’t you get that through
your head?”
The guard was mad — which
was kind of sad
since she was raging at
a feather-clad
nomad
who didn’t care
one single dingle about what
a human said — but Dang, that mouth
was burning red.
So the bird said, “WHY?
“Look, see, I can fly —
and a bird don’t need no
traffic lights.”
And off she flew
into the big, wide winter blue
with the flitter and the flutter
of a cockatoo.
And where she next
set down
was a distant town —
— a daffodilla-billa scene —
where the leaves had turned
from brown to green —
Yet perhaps most pleasing
To our cockatoo —
(And we know what
she’d been through — )
There was no fussy wussy
telling her what
to do.
Words and image © 2026 Ted Cleary. Poem from the new read-aloud book, Mister Jiggles: Rimes from the Brine. Photo is of an NYC East River pigeon with another zinging by in a serendipitous foot-tucked moment, perfectly in frame, slightly out of focus, as perfectly desired. I know, I know, the poem is about a cockatoo, but there are no cockatoos by the East River, and I won’t resort to AI right here, my dears, even if it might make a more thematic fit. This is the rebellion of the hominids, people … HSG: Homo sapiens Guarantee. The Spanish translation below, however, is machine-made, steered to the literal … I can’t do everything ya know. Comment, share, subscribe, upgrade … a bird has to eat its weight in food every day to keep going, or so I heard … go with God.
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Lo que oyó el pájaro
por Ted Cleary
Lo que oyó el pájaro
fue algo
parecido a una palabra —
pero como un pájaro
es un pájaro
y no un niño
ni un bardo,
no es de extrañar que no hiciera caso
a aquella chiflada refifí
guardia de cruce.
—La luz está roja,
del color de los muertos;
¿no te entra eso
en la cabeza?
La guardia estaba furiosa —
y era una pena, la verdad—,
porque le gritaba a una
nómada emplumada
a la que no le importaba
ni un comino
lo que dijera un ser humano.
Pero, caramba,
¡cómo le ardía la boca de rojo!
Entonces dijo el pájaro:
—¿POR QUÉ?
—Mira, ¿ves? Yo puedo volar,
y un pájaro no necesita
semáforos.
Y se fue volando
hacia el grande y ancho azul del invierno,
con el revoloteo y el aleteo
de una cacatúa.
Y donde volvió a posarse
fue en un pueblo lejano —
una escena de dafodilas y maravillas—
donde las hojas habían pasado
del marrón al verde.
Y quizá lo más agradable
para nuestra cacatúa —
(y sabemos bien
por lo que había pasado)—
era que no había ninguna
tiquismiquis
diciéndole
lo que tenía que hacer.No posts
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