Trash Birds

field notes from a quiet morning

This is a “documentary poem,” drawn from a real conversation on my walk today. I’m not sure where I’m going with this (probably nowhere). But if this ends up being the only one I write, I hope it offers something to you on this winter day.

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This morning the birds called out.
I walked to the window to see—
Fat robins.
House sparrows.
I filled the feeders and sprinkled seed on the ground,
A trail to lead them.

I remember the time she told me
She didn’t want the bag of bird seed.
I could take it.
All she could attract were
Trash birds.

I learned later
She meant the cardinal,
The sparrow,
The grackle,
The crow,
The raven,
Maybe the mourning dove, too,
Those glorified pigeons.

But I will feed them.
They come from the same source,
Like all of us.
Some more beautiful than others,
But all hungry.

I met him on the steep hill.
I waved and said hello.
He turned in my direction,
Though didn’t wave right away.
He might’ve said hello,
But his mouth was too small under his large, white beard for me to see.

We journeyed together
Into the woods.

He told me he’d been tracing some footsteps
From my next-door neighbor’s house.
Feet smaller than his.

He showed me his ice clamp-ons,
The figure-eight they made.
Said his own tracks were easy to read—
But this one, this foot, was unfamiliar.

I stomped my shoe into the snowy earth
So he could see my print.
It was me he sought.

But all he said was,
“Those shoes will be good today in the woods,”
And carried on—
Talking about how the tracks led to this place
And that,
But ended at the pond.

The pond being not a pond,
But a dried-up muddle frozen over.

Still, he called it a pond
Because he once saw tadpoles there.
He wished them well—
But the sun did not.
It dried them into the earth,
Preserved and wrinkled.

He told me his wife had been taken out of hospice
And wanted to start canning again.
“She’s amazing,” he said, with admiration.

He told me he was rising dough at home
For sourdough cinnamon rolls.*
He had gathered figs, prunes, dates, and raisins,
Together with honey and cinnamon.

“How many in your home?” he asked.
“Four,” I said.
He said he’d bring me half a dozen.
I said that’s more than enough.

He told me there’s a woman—
A local teacher—
Who tracked the cerulean warbler
From this very spot
All the way to South America and back.

Said he had a book about it.**
He’d bring it to me,
Along with the cinnamon rolls.

I should read it, he said,
And await the warbler in the spring.

I return home
To see the trash birds eating their food.

I think of the woman
Who gave up feeding.
And the man
Who follows prints to nowhere.

I think of what we call worthy,
What we choose to keep and feed.

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Footnotes:

*the cinnamon bread that was delivered along with a jar of “…cherry tomatoes this year cut in half then dehydrated. Rehydrate in tomato soup or stew.” feeling thankful for neighbors.

And his recipe below:

**the book he spoke of

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