Thirteen Blackbirds Looking at a Waze
(with apologies to Wallace Stevens)
It began as an urge, when all of them merged
like inkblots spilled out of a printer.
Bright beaks and dark feathers took flight in cool weather,
migrating south for the winter.
They stayed in formation, all traversing the nation,
guided by internal compasses.
Routes their grandfathers knew, winds their own fathers flew,
wayfinding like airborne Columbuses.
But beneath them was painted a land unacquainted,
splotched with the gray stains of cities.
All wildfires and killings, and loggings and drillings,
white hoods and red hats. But no pity.
They grew tired, then they landed, so no one was stranded—
thirteen of them lined on a fence.
While everyone rested, the smallest confessed it,
dispensing with carried pretense—
"I'm scared of this country," he blurted out bluntly,
and all of their flabbers were gasted.
"You claimed it was peaceful, but that was deceitful—
I've only seen violence and plastic.
And all of the migrants are seized up by tyrants,
loaded in great metal birds,
then carried away, despite pleading to stay.
Can nobody translate their words?"
Their feathers were ruffled. They awkwardly shuffled,
and the flock traded glances among them.
Who could explain what the youngest had named?
What had caused all these things? Who had done them?
The eldest, grayfeathered, eyes murky, beak weathered,
hopped forward to speak by default.
"I hear you, young fledgeling. And thank you for venting!
There's not simply one who's at fault.
Context is critical in this sociopolitical—"
And then he died, bursting in offal.
The birds all flapped backwards, their eyes darting leftwards,
where a sneering man wielded a rifle.
"Birds are drones! Birds are lies! You're all government spies!"
he ranted and raved while reloading.
"I want you all gone! Now get off my damned lawn!"
They preferred flying tired to exploding.
So the twelve birds remaining, their wing-muscles straining,
escaped, aloft and exhausted,
in hollow-boned grief at the loss of their chief,
still in shock at being accosted.
Then the principled youth who had spoken his truth
veered off, and the flock followed suit.
He must understand, thought the beleaguered band,
a different instinctual route.
They continued, enfeebled, until trees grew white-needled,
and rivers were silvered with frost.
"This can't be the way," one bird managed to say.
"Surely we've got to be lost."
But they arrived in short order, having just crossed the border.
The young leader announced while alighting,
"Our instincts were wrong! Though the winters are long,
Canada's much more inviting."
Please enjoy this audio recording of the author reading their poem.
