Elegy, Immature Form
       

Driving the two-lane southeastern artery,
early afternoon, and thwunk! What in the . . .
a bird tumbles through the partly open
passenger window, mid-flight, a bird
interrupted by its impact with the edge
of the car roof, interrupted
and falling into the aisle of air between
car seat and door where I can't see it—
and I've seen this accident of air
and illusion before, mind-sloggering
the impact on window glass, a token bit
of feather, a smudge, the bird bounced onto
the grass, dead on impact or if stunned
and given time, it stutters off; if lucky,
it lives—so that I'm pulling over now
where asphalt meets a flush of burdock
and such—opening the car door to find
the bird (smallish blue/gray crested)
enough life left in it that the claw-like feet
try to hold on to the car rug, I have it now,
gentle, be gentle, I have it in my hands,
it's panting, it's in shock, no struggle now,
still breathing as I grab a folded
bit of morning newspaper and look about,
leaving the weathered tarmac,
trucks in neat rows over there to the left—
what's that smell?—fetid, nose-wrinkling,
and off the man-made surfaces,
onto dirt and grass, I find in the shade of ragweed
and sumac and hay stalks
a protected spot and lay the bird down—
it rights itself! it stands! so it's perhaps
just stunned, but there's a rumple
at the top of one wing, a hitch that doesn't
match—water, it needs water, I think,
so back to the car, and would you believe it
Beethoven's idling along with the motor,
here's my water bottle, no cup, no lid,
no useful junk to hold the water, only
the plastic sleeve for the newspaper,
perhaps it will make-do—what is that smell
rising from open tanks sunk into the ground
the lids are off—and the bird in its bower
has a black round thing in its beak,
is it wounded? a gobbet of blood spit up
from its bird guts, looks like—well, hello,
it's a berry, pokeweed or huckleberry,
and I see the bit of bright yellow on the tip
of the tail, diagnostic, it looks as if the tail's
been dipped in yellow paint—so:
a cedar wax-wing, but not brown,
no red epaulets, it's blue-gray,
evening-shadow color, now another berry's
disgorged, wax-wings eat fruit, a liquid
that's summer jam blue, berries
just hot enough to pop, a burst of purple—
blood? or is this really fruit, I wonder,
as I drop a bit of water into its open beak,
using my fingertip, another drop,
and the bird looks interested, not grateful,
just a dip of the head as I fashion the plastic
into a nest shape and pour water in—
what more can I do? there must be more,
the bird will either die from the impact
or live to fly off, or a random fox will . . .
I pour water and turn away. Don't think about it.
On the way back to the car, finally I notice,
off to the side of the trucks, rows
of portable-potties, and the odor, unmistakable,
holy shit! cisterns full of it, each with
a long-handled spade to swirl the haul of human
excrement—and now I wake up
to the truth: this is no elegy,
I'll never get used to it, there's no affirmation,
just berry blood and shit, and I might
have done more, what am I thinking,
pulling back into traffic, leaving the scene,
there's a Nature Center near, there's a vet
down Shewville on the way to Mystic—
but I'm stuck in a traffic jam, turns out
yes, there's an accident, and dear reader,
if you think, given the asphalt, the trucks,
the cisterns of waste, and the traffic,
we're in an urban landscape with weeds thrown in,
you're wrong—it's a side-business,
this shit; these are fields fallen into disuse,
old farm fields, and it all fits, doesn't it?
Cedar waxwings love berries and brush
and open fields with thickets—
it's a gorgeously turned-out waxwing, a juvenile,
what the books call immature form,
stuffing itself on berries, readying itself
for a long and treacherous fall migration
along a diminishing trail of berries, it's the long
passage home. It's the long passage home cut short.

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Copyright © 2020 Margaret Gibson All rights reserved
from Connecticut River Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission