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Originally
published by Paper Nautilus |
“they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns…” the robins are migrating chirr-up, chirr-up they perch they hop they flock frantic they are tittering red breast legion the narrator explains subtropical insectual abundance, theories of third geologic era Mesozoic roots he describes the great migrations, winter and breeding ranges, mating for and not for life multiple blue or mottled eggs in the trees outside my window, on the crisp lawn till a kid on a bike scatters the roosts to shotgun flight he mixes instinct, ritual, biomass and biomass consumed, numbers populations, declines and resurgences, and, as with many small birds, 80% morbidity in the trees outside my window, on the crisp lawn I still hoped, as the old reverends implied, to walk out among them priests who always sat too close: soap and scotch and sanctity as they murmured how like unto St. Francis I seemed knees touching, and: Do you ever? hands lingering, and: Whom do you think of? smile contorting, and: What you do for me, you do for Him. the narrator could use a moment beyond reason, Assisi sprouts to fate seasons in a desolate meadow whispering with flocks of imaginary birds |