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.