Poetry
In selecting poems for this issue, the editors began with a rigorous standard formulated by the New Yorker, that holy grail of publishing credits. The standard was this: were there birds. We didn't adjust our nets for a particular species—we're equal employment practitioners, after all. In fact, we were hoping for a diverse collection that would demonstrate the many approaches to and possibilities for flight. Our expedition led us through low deserts of monotonous dunes and monotone flocks, as well as frivolously lush jungles in which the mawkish and parroting dwell. Yet, after a year of patiently holding out our handfuls of seed, six rare species alighted on our limbs. We have songbirds, dark harbingers, mythical earth birthers and resurrectors, night owls pondering their livelihood in the current global climate, and, of course, the fleeting afterimage of the elusive, though prized, one that flew the coup. These birds fly. They show off. Their architectures—at once intricately crafted and inspired—overcome the weight of their materials and the gravity of the mind. And yet, unlike poems you will find in the New Yorker, these are birds on the rise.