Birds and the Trick of Time | signed
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“…Marvelous poems of a life lived on the edge of the wild, homestead poems among the harsh beauties of the far North. Clean language that relies on the natural image to trace out a thin narrative thread and carry the deep feeling within. A mother spinning yarn from the long wool of the sheep’s belly, dyed with burdock and beet-skin. The chapped hands of working class youth; night shift at a slaughterhouse, hustling the lumber mill’s green chain. I admire their spare lines and Stoic outlook, reminiscent of Gary Snyder or early John Haines.” — Joseph Millar, author of Shine
Available June 24, 2025, at your local bookseller or buy from Bookshop.org | Amazon US | B&N | Amazon CA
PRE-ORDER from Circling Rivers: Author signed copies of BIRDS AND THE TRICK OF TIME: POEMS | free shipping to US/APO. Books ship week of June 16, 2025.
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BIRDS AND THE TRICK OF TIME sings of the fortitude passed through generations and through living on the fringes, through loving and endings, and the pauses that fall between people. A few poems dare touch on the trick of time.
“These are the marvelous poems of a life lived on the edge of the wild, homestead poems among the harsh beauties of the far North. Clean language that relies on the natural image to trace out a thin narrative thread and carry the deep feeling within. A mother spinning yarn from the long wool of the sheep’s belly, dyed with burdock and beet-skin. The chapped hands of working class youth; night shift at a slaughterhouse, hustling the lumber mill’s green chain. I admire their spare lines and Stoic outlook, reminiscent of Gary Snyder or early John Haines.” — Joseph Millar, author of Shine
About the author
Mark Anthony Burke’s work is published in literary journals including the North American Review, Beloit Poetry Journal, Sugar House Review, and Nimrod International Journal. He received his MFA from Pacific University in 2014. Visit MarkAnthonyBurkeSongsAndPoems.com
from BIRDS AND THE TRICK OF TIME
DOUBT
The snow has fallen all day,
flakes drifting like leaves,
burying every scrap and hole.
Found one of the old hens
frozen in the hay chute,
brushed the snow off
the square boulder by the stream
and laid her there
offered to the sky,
the black scavengers that will take her
when I walk back up the hill.
I will show my children,
when they come to dinner today,
what carried me
over the hill of fifty
when I was tired with all my doubt:
this morning’s twins,
two new apple faces
peering through the crowd of legs
in the corner of the ewes’ stall.
