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Bird and Squirrel is a 20 minute video piece created by artist Kelli Scott Kelley. Bird and Squirrel is a metaphorical fairytale which tells the story of the last boy and girl on the earth. In the story, the girl and boy create a bird and a squirrel in an attempt to restore life to the planet. There is no dialog In Bird and Squirrel other than the surreal thoughts of the girl in voiceover format.
The boy ...............Finnian Scott Kelley The girl ................Sage Scott Fuchs Girl's voice...........Zoe Arabella Parker Writer/director........................Kelli Scott Kelley Music, foley and lighting.......William D. Kelley Poem - Bird and Squirrel......Jacqueline D. Parker On-line Post-Production........Christopher S. Johnson	watch the movie now
Listen to Jim Engster's interview of Kelli Scott Kelley (WRKF - Baton Rouge, LA)

(part 2)

This poem embodies the voiceover for the film. See the film here!


	Bird and Squirrel by Jacqueline Dee Parker A blue grey eye, a kind of transparency, a pupil of moldavite, another heir of heaven and earth. His gaze pools with hope, sempiternal as the spell of a star-flocked sky. A hard nut to crack: what I felt when I flew by. Throat of a creek soaking moss, sipping rivulets from a tin cup tasting faintly of aluminum-- Remember we dyed my brother’s feathers with mud from the riverbank to turn them brown, to trick the other girls and he listened to all of their secrets, ever after, we later saw, appalled-- Tonight rainwater brims on palm fronds the slow drops glistening in circles, as if for the first time. I heard they skinned his mother. In the cottage by the river, framed by squares of glass smoky from pipes and candles and the memory of fire, the skin of her breast was pelted. She’d worn an apron with square pockets and he a vest with brown buttons and I can’t be sure but I think they were content. Her silken fur’s a hearthrug. I watched him rage in the quiet room with nothing left to break, then stand at the stove til nightfall, his haunches heaving, his heart seething, his tears disposed to the pot already filled with his mother’s bones. What I felt when I flew by-- his blue grey eye, the moldavite pupil wet, plagued by history, misery’s hunger, a hard nut to crack. I too, have lost multitudes in toto, I, too, suspire-- each day, an experiment in immortality, a seizure of reckoning or conviction, yearning’s whisper-- In mourning the creek would not keep his heart’s torrents and the current bore down, ran away from him-- its dry wake, scarred mud depressions, a snaking route he followed. So long in the clouds I’ve circled and somehow lost all bearings, the sloping oak, white impatiens at its roots-- Now rainwater pounds palm fronds, fast drops leak in all the flasks he’s placed, spilling rims of glasses. When through the peephole I finally fly, my gaze pooling, he simply looks up, as if my arrival were expected, as if it’s good I’m on time this time, as if he knows I’m an erstwhile soul-- We push a wide mop with wet loops like a woman’s wet hair on tiles our feet shine in duplicate, and our shadows turn up the corners of this room, like stagehands hoisting a velvet curtain, peel them away -- the beam kindling our embrace is akin to what I felt when first I flew by, all wings and hair and hide bid to abide--ours is a marriage of heirs in the cruel and beautiful future that is heaven, that is earth.