Juvenilia
She found the bird beneath the tree. It was a kinglet,
ruby-crowned, a juvenile. Stiffened by the time it took
to find it, fledging dropped from the numbered nest.
Numbered, the nest, in days beneath the gaze
of crows in summer. Maple, the tree, sprawling beside
the blameless lake. Big leaf maple billowing green,
leaves like summer held in the palm. Hand to mouth
she found it wanting, kinglet whistle in the dark. Hand to mouth
grasping for a word. What chance does a fledgling have
in summer skirmishes, hiding in a maple like breath
in a squall? Like a squatter in a half-finished high-rise.
She found the bird, said look before she stooped
to examine it, probe the fact of its not moving
like taxidermy, a piece of time fallen from the branch.
Behind glass a stiffened bird looks almost natural,
tagged and arranged like no remorse.
On grass the bird looked like sleep out of place.
We sometimes see men sleeping in the park, mid-day,
sunlight warming their worldly dispossession. Tarps
like wingspan. Gaze beyond a wounded beaming.
She is ten now, shy with pity. She looks and looks
but will not touch. A death this whole must be saved from itself.
With a leaf I gathered it up — kinglet, ruby-
crown, little kingdom come to rest in the grass.
We gave it a name: Sunstroke. We took it home with us,
bird in leaf, sky in hand. We laid it in a flowerbed
beneath the apple tree. A small bird flies
through root and rudiment. We sang a little dirge,
almost laughing. Dirt clung to the trowel like a grin.