How the Wood Storks Broke My Heart
Afternoon, late March, delivering promise
of downtime from errands, long lines at the post,
queues of cars at stoplights, what, if anything, is in
the pantry for supper. A glass of wine is nice, will suffice
against the mind's continuous monolog, news of unrest
in distant lands, world hunger, and men on South
Africa's wild coast who believe raping small girls
will cure them of their AIDS. For respite, I turn
to the wood storks and two world-class pines, sending
a blessing of straw and symmetrical cones into protective
lake growth, sealing its borders with a scrim
of airy viridian; birthright of sea birds seeking evening
asylum. So, what to do about an invasion of enormous
jaws that take no prisoners on a battlefield of buzz saws?
Machetes, felling pines, wild shrubs, and indigenous
palmettos with which landscapers decorate yards
of costly homes. Development, Progress, New
Construction? Words to glamorize rape of wetlands.
The storks are flying away, now, from across the lake,
where once in heart-stopping numbers they bivouacked
against the advent 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," purer than masses
of lilies on an Easter grave.
Copyright © Nola Perez | Year Posted 2012
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