A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
after Hayden Carruth The birds come and go at the feeders, but so few. I long for flocks of finches but all I get is a single sparrow flitting in from the maples, a lone nuthatch, upside down, then gone. I don’t know why it pains me, this lack. Perhaps it’s a fear that I haven’t passed some necessary bird test, haven’t intuited their deepest desires. Used to be, every calf I met would eat out of my hand. How long has it been since I’ve felt an eager wet nose thrusting against my cupped palms? There was an emptiness, in that greedy snuffling touch; an emptiness, too, in the bright flicker of a cardinal on my back fence. Too easy an ending to say that it’s mine.
Copyright 2021 Dawn Potter