Yesterday, lightning cut through the coloured banners of dusk.
This evening, I walk alone - the sea and air silvered by the last
of light and in the distance - above the scalloped lines traced
by the waters' seeking of the land… a mound shaped - seaweed? As I narrow
the space between… detail resolves into dark feathers ... and wings rise / fall
heavy on sand grains hold - without heart. The next wave lazily extends
an arm. The beak catches - becoming a pivot upon which the whole bird
turns. Death recedes ... and the wave that follows merely hints. I, towel snatch
the ocean's prey given (perhaps) by the storm we saw as splendid light
show fading without a drop of rain to give ease to our eyes. Ankles snared
I feel the strength of the sea's pull towards the depths. I am sinking but
still unmoved. No longer set against the span of ocean - the bird makes
my hands small; my flesh defenceless against a hooked
beak. It opens makes a small sound then closure
so complete the line seems drawn. There will be
neither parting nor malice. The nearness of my body is
accepted - an illusion of home? Grey-brown feathers
fluff as the evening's breath parts around us.
The many chords of the sea recede; blur into
a dull thunder. The bird borne away, seems
to snuggle in as if it were my rescued child.
Drops of salt water are gathering around grains of memory.
This is old - past locked - images must now be worn - but
time has failed - no alteration found. Not one detail is lost;
no softening of the lines. No. I will not go down such backward
paths. I must find the way to one able to tender aid. At the vet's hours
cease at 5. The caretaker of my unit stumbles on recognition - but then
hands me a box saying, 'If you must - try the Sanctuary.' A damp cold
seeps from the towel. I release the bird into a cardboard nest.
A wing lifts - awkward flag of distress. My finger glides down
the finely patterned breast and it hunches into quiet. Darkness
waits at the windows ... I ring and I ring. The phone stays engaged.
A frog croaks - a steady rhythm breaking the cover of
silence. At last - a clear line ... I am told, 'Yes, a mutton bird. We have
so many. Shocked probably never see the morning ... Okay, bring it in
then but - we have so many.' Death gives and is not diminished.
Like being thrown from a jet rockets - from one side of my mind
to the other. Birds - 200 lost… and there in soundless shadow ...
My brown aviator - does the flight encoded in your cells
still call as you lie boxed cut adrift from the journey? Can you
live solitary far from the calls and quarrels of your kind?
I pray for sleep that carries only a dream of home
4am - the air is full of silence. Stilled I feel
the bird rise - freed it skims upon the wind - shearing a -
cross my spirit. I, too, must rise in an embrace of morning.