Great Swamp, New Jersey
May, 1993
Raptors too hurt to prey sit
in cages cleaned by Sunday volunteers.
The raptors' protector-man has fed them special rodents.
He ambles along, tells my priest and nun
that he, too has a flock,
that he, too, begs.
We are held in owl eyes.
We behold hooked golden eagle beak,
camouflage-downed falcon breast,
Pigeon walking up and down
as if nothing has changed.
That afternoon in May remains
freshly suspended within me,
a recurring preoccupation.
The boarded walkway returns to me,
and the strange swamp grass, various,
strong and brittle
in the soft sun.
A flycatcher dives upward,
nips its mosquito.
A snake, black and ominous,
slithers, parts the gooey swamp
with its terrible belly.
A young man asks me to help
a young woman who is struggling
to identify a small yellow bird.
She holds a thick, complete nature book;
It is almost as rich as the swamp.
A rufous-sided towhee sits
high on its bare-branched perch;
it provokes the azure sky.
It enters my glasses,
puffing itself.
We emerge too soon.
Quit the swamp, and
seat ourselves talkatively in the car,
never to leave the afternoon.