How the Wood Storks Broke My Heart
Afternoon, late March, delivering promise
of respite from errands, long lines at the post office,
queues of cars at red lights, what, if anything, is in
the offing for supper. A glass of wine is nice, will soften
the mind's noisy dissertation, news of unrest in
distant lands, world hunger, and men on South Africa's
Wild Coast who believe raping small girls will cure
their AIDS. For respite, I turn to the wood storks
and two world-class pines, sending perfect drifts of straw
and symmetrical cones into the protective lake-growth
ornamenting edges with a scrim of airy viridian: birth-
right of sea birds needing evening asylum. Now,
there's an unwanted invasion of enormous jaws, taking
no prisoners on a battlefield of buzz saws. Machetes
fell pines, artless shrubs and perfect palmettos that greedy
landscapers treasure to decorate the yard-scapes of
costly homes. Development, New Construction? Words--
glamorizing rape of wetlands. The birds are flying out,
now, from across our lake, where once in heart-
stopping numbers, they bivouacked against the arrival
of night. This day, this hour, they take wing, bird
by bird in a ghostly exodus, taking their "Reflection
of nearly all light from all visible wave links," whiter
than masses of lilies on an Easter morning. O,
lost blessing, these birds, taking healing
and our hearts in their exodus.
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