By: James J. Hatfield
At the factory's front lawn
at a picnic table
birds nosedive and pull
off suicidal flight
patterns around passing
automotive bursting soft
between sounds of industry
juxtaposed like trees and
railroads like metal and stone
birds alive on infinite
electric wire highways
connecting nest to nest
to nest
Hallelujah, this
pinned on my memory
until it's time to punch out
and participate.
James J. Hatfield is a Durham-based, displaced engineer who loves science and art, writes fiction and poetry, and other contradictions. He is a Weymouth Fellow, a Sterling Room For Writer's Fellow, and was a featured poet at the 2018 West End Poetry Festival. His work has appeared or is upcoming in Barely South Review, Chaleur Magazine, littledeathlit, Havik, and Orange Terror. He is a founding member of the Peebles Writing Collective. Insta: @jamesjhatfield
"I recently took a job at a factory. Quickly I discovered how soul-draining it is to be in a building without windows for ten hours a day. I worried about my writing and didn't see how I could dedicate my energy to both my job and my work (one is what sustains you financially, the other is your fulfillment). During my lunch I started doing a lap around the plant and found these picnic tables that face the road. Up and down the road are other factories, and I wondered where nature went. I imagined this what was happening to my soul. Then I noticed birds still flying, and their were still trees with nests in them. And that nature, life, adapts and lives. Chances are the birds thought it was more fun shit to fly around and sit on. When I went back inside it the brick walls seemed thinner. And the people, the machines, had it's own solemnity. It's more life to download and write about. I honestly have been writing more, even with less time to do so.
Life, adapts and lives."