By Stanley Plumly
They fly up in front of you so suddenly,
tossed, like gravel, by the handful,
kicked like snow or dead leaves into life.
Or if it's spring they break back and forth
like schools of fish silver at the surface,
like the swifts I saw in the hundreds
over the red tile roofs of Assisi—
they made shadows, they changed sunlight,
and at evening, before vespers,
waved back to the blackbird nuns.
My life list is one bird at a time long,
what Roethke calls looking. The eye,
particular for color, remembers when
a treeful would go gray with applause,
in the middle of nowhere, in a one-oak field.
I clapped my hands just for the company.
As one lonely morning, green under glass,
a redwing flew straight at me, its shoulders
slick with rain that hadn't fallen yet.
In the birdbook there, where the names are,
it's always May, and the thing so fixed
we can see it—Cerulean, Blackpoll, Pine.
The time one got into the schoolroom
we didn't know what it was, but it sang,
it sailed along the ceiling on all sides,
and blew back out, wild, still lost,
before any of us, stunned, could shout
it down. And in a hallway once,
a bird went mad, window by locked window,
the hollow echo length of a building.
I picked it up closed inside my hand.
I picked it up and tried to let it go.
They fly up so quickly in front of you,
without names, in the slurred shapes of wings.
Scatter as if shot from twelve-gauge guns.
Or they fly from room to room, from memory
past the future, having already gathered
in great numbers on the ground.
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Once again I am behind because I was reading son's college essays which are done now, huzzah, and then was talking to a friend who has really been through the wringer this month, so this will be short. My morning and early afternoon were all about work and chores anyway -- laundry is done, article is half-done, messed-up Google Docs files are relabeled and organized. It was gorgeous out yet again, and yet again I am so glad the leaves are taking their time to fall!
Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn't bad this week, but I'm just not feeling much love for any of the main characters, even Coulson, and I feel like there's too much talking down to the audience. My fun evening screen-viewing was watching Deception via long distance with Cara Chapel (she for Ewan, me for Hugh, though we are both willing to discuss how much happier their characters would be together). Some photos from Rock Creek Park a few days back:
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