From our bedroom window, I watch a mother bird nudge a featherless, stubby-winged,
bug-eyed chick to the edge of her nest. Two have gone before. Their bodies lie at
the base of the tree, motionless. JoAn is still in bed. Mornings are tough. Two
years have passed since her stroke and two months since she broke a hip. Love sustained
us for a while. Now, I don’t know what keeps us going. Habit maybe. Not hope,
not now, no holding on to the belief that things will return to normal. Maybe it’s
fate or early choices playing themselves out. The chick stands on the edge of its
nest, flaps its tiny wings as if to practice. I’m certain it will crash. It
hesitates, then leaps out into what we call air but is really just nothing. It flaps
away, but falls straight down. JoAn calls out to me. I know she’s in pain,
but I can’t stop watching the bird. It’s losing altitude. Then a few
feet from the ground, it somehow manages to catch the air. It lifts up, flies away,
and circles back to its nest.
she ran far away,
then disappeared
into the face of a glacier
—Adapted from a lineated poem (see below) which was previously published in
Serving House Journal (Issue 8, Fall 2013); republished here by author’s
permission
From our bedroom window, I watch
a mother bird nudge a featherless,
stubby-winged, bug-eyed chick to the edge
of her nest. Two have gone before.
Their bodies lie at the base of the tree,
motionless. JoAn is still in bed.
Mornings are tough. Two years have passed
since her stroke and two months since she broke
a hip. Love sustained us for a while. Now,
I don’t know what keeps us going. Habit maybe.
Not hope, not now, no holding on to the belief
that life will return to normal. Maybe it’s fate
or early choices playing themselves out.
The chick stands on the edge of its nest,
flaps its tiny wings as if to practice. I’m certain
it will crash. It hesitates, then leaps out
into what we call air but is really just nothing.
It flaps away but falls straight down. JoAn
calls out to me. I know she’s in pain, but
I can’t stop watching the bird. It’s losing
altitude. Then a few feet from the ground,
it somehow manages to catch the air. It lifts up,
flies away and circles back to its nest.
—First published in Serving House Journal (Issue 8, Fall 2013);
republished here by author’s permission
Bio:
Dan Gilmore
