Avian Economics
       

A Western meadowlark arrived
on this warm spring afternoon,
its call notes
rising up
along our pasture fence.

We pause to attend to
this recalibration of the day—
to such sweet portion of
flute and warble,
the mind opening
again and again to the field
as continents of clouds smooth its surface.

This citizen of prairie travelled
from the south,
tracking the dwindling portion
of wild countryside.
The grassland along the ancient route
is plundered early for hay,
the spray of toxin laid down as prescribed,
as the laws of productive tillage
have advised.

The Sioux valued
their meadowlarks as omens
of friendship and loyalty,
avoiding the shallow dips in grass
that cradle a nest.

The Blackfoot thought them
carriers of peace—
protection of this shy, tawny settler
deemed sound tribal worth.

I take the long way home,
over the past of the Atfalati people
who once lived here on this land
and took their own way of care
for this little traveler
who must find our rough meadow
of grass and herbs well managed
since it seems not managed at all—
a waste of good land
in our neighbor's estimation.

Breezes blade the meadow,
billowing the fescue with its modest flowers,
stroking the clover
and old cornstalks to shake.
Sorrel and chickweed
wave their fat waddings at the margins,
green vapor rising in the eddies.

The meadowlark's stout body
explores the oat and vetch,
its beak prying open the earth
for last summer's grain
and this year's crop of beetle and grub.

Its song follows me,
bright flanks brushing the soft gatherings
of the afternoon—
an answering call rises from the thicket
and always the sky grows larger.

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Copyright © 2021 Caroline Boutard All rights reserved
from Each Leaf Singing
MoonPath Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission