Opportunistic storks & unconvincing garden

This work was inspired by observing the increasing number of storks flying over my neighborhood, Travno, en route to nearby Jakuševac, where a landfill sprawls across the landscape. I followed their path and wrote several prose poems inspired by the scenes I witnessed. At the landfill, a surprising coexistence of bird species unfolds, dominated by the rhythmic, piercing calls of the storks.

At vast landfills in Spain, storks have begun overwintering, shortening their traditional migratory route that once stretched beyond the equator into Africa. Here, too, they have abandoned their natural diet in favor of the abundant “junk food” offered by human waste.

Around the landfill, enormous nests are visible—some woven with plastic bags, their synthetic strands jutting out like grotesque ornaments. Birds circle the excavators, while gusts of wind push plastic waste to the hilltop. From a distance, the storks seem to be feeding on the strange, poisoned bounty of a broken ecosystem. Alongside them, other birds roam: river gulls, crows, pigeons, grey herons, and a solitary hawk that preys on the smaller species.

I wonder if they can smell the hydrogen sulfide—a toxic, colorless gas with the unmistakable stench of rotten eggs. After thirty-five minutes of observation, I developed a headache and was forced to leave.

I collected feathers from a stork and created an object on a circular piece of rice paper—an abstract symbol of the inextricable entanglement of life, waste, and survival. I arranged the feathers alongside fragments of plastic, forming a tactile artifact that will be used in a series of short video performance sequences.

From photographs of the dump, I cut out silhouettes of birds and a human figure, leaving behind voids—gaps meant as spaces for meditation.

Morning, opening the balcony

No,
this isn’t a poem about a bird
with yellow smudges and a torn wing.
It’s not about the shadow-riddles
drifting between my eyes and my brow.

morning.
I open the balcony.
my face floats
on the surface of my tea.

Today, the stork and I
lazily lunch on junk food—
why chase the vanishing frogs,
the snakes, the fish, the insects—
when everything’s pre-cooked
and slightly toxic?

why migrate?
why feel?
the ache of solastalgia
can be cooled
with a wide array of nonsense.

I stare at an empty blue bag.
is it silly to leave it
a healthier meal?
I pack a palette
of useless thoughts,
inhale sour air—

and no,
I’m still not writing
a poem about a bird.