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.




Copyright James Bolner, Sr. ©1998