The below poems originally appeared in Birdbrains: A Lyrical Guide to Washington State Birds. The book is part poetry anthology and part bird guide, featuring original paintings by artist Hiroko Seki.
Snow Geese
almost always migrate. Their spectacular aerial show
blots out the skies with thousands of birds—
communities of siblings, fathers & mothers—
doing what this waterfowl naturally do
embarking en masse from Mexico & the US to
feed on arctic plants & roots. To make goslings. To
grow their kin & kind. Behold their rhythmic
honk & squawk. Marvel at their
immense formation, & their steady, steady wingbeat.
Just ten years ago, The Snow Goose Cookbook
kindly urged us to eat our way out of this
large & growing species, by making goose croquettes in the name of
managing arctic habitats. The bird’s gamey tough meat
notwithstanding. But I refuse to eat you, Beloved.
Or to complain about your greenish
poop that carpets the Skagit Delta. Oh,
Quintessential Sign of the Passing of Seasons. Oh,
Regal Pilgrim of the Open Water. Never
stop multiplying. Your abundant life in
the present eco-disaster inspires. Be
unwavering, be millions, be our future. When the earth’s
very existence is unknown, spread your black-tipped
winged plumage like a prayer. Pray for our
xenogenesis from destructive inheritance: for
yellow offspring with bright eyes
zig-zagging towards soft new grass.
~Renee Simms
Wood Duck at Wapato Park, Showing Out
Touch the water, summer bird,
Touch the water, then strut
your wings as in devotion.
Tell us, in your high tenor
of home and its specifics
that we mimeograph in block
after block.
Take your wings and show your color(s)
-your Burgundys-your Blues
-your heavy dirt clay tones that make
us yearn
for a journey back (if only for a time).
Validate the now if not the memory
of woods free from the remembrance of blood,
of grass free from bones, and mobless parks
and seven seals unbroken from sturdy branches,
then flash the neon iridescence you hide
in the cold. You among your people now.
Testify in the water, oh colored southern bird
Testify on your portable promise lands
~Robert Lashley
Early Morning Song for a Great Blue Heron
Praise the Great Blue Heron,
sister of waterfall and cedar, brother of peace
Praise the great blue bird who balances,
his house, body and soul, on slender legs like homes
on stilts in fishing villages across the world
Praise the stately bearing of a blue heron carrying on
in an estuary as light succumbs to the abyss of night
Praise the Great Blue Heron’s plumage, albus and umbra,
love and loathing, traces of the imperfect in the present tense
Praise the taut line between grace and gaucheness
that a Great Blue Heron traverses all the days of her life
Praise be to the noble heron witnessing
the names of the dead floating on by and by
Praise the heron’s patience, humility’s twin virtue,
fishing on at dusk through the murk
Praise the Great Blue Heron’s ingenuity
to meet its hunger, with extended wings creating
her own weather, casting shade on quiet waters,
luring aquatic creatures for lunch
Praise the frogs and minnows, the reeds and marsh,
the wind and tides that nurture herons
This early dawn I praise the solitary Great Blue Heron,
wings folded over its body, neck tucked,
as if it feeling the weight of the world’s sorrow
Praise a Great Blue Heron in flight,
crossing sky, archer and arrow of its destiny
Praise the heron’s long beak for making evident
the delight of kissing with a human mouth
Praise the great blue’s loyalty to mate and place,
each year returning to the same nest
Praise the herons who after decades
decide not to return to the old nest,
and those who make room to face their many deaths
and each time let new light rush into their blue hearts
I, a Homo sapiens, praise the Great Blue Heron,
Ardea herodias, its birdiness, against which
my flawed humanity comes to light.
~Claudia Castro Luna
The Bald Eagles of Seward Park
always surprise me, always make me
believe trying to fix a mistake is worth it.
Case in point: DDT, an insecticide used to eradicate
diseases like malaria and typhus.
Eradicating mosquitoes because, well,
first and foremost: the health and safety of people.
God forbid a human should’ve known
how this chemical would weaken the eggshells of eagles,
inching down the number in the lower 48 from 100,000 to
just 417. Yes, they harass ospreys, steal their prey, so it
kinda makes sense Ben Franklin said He does not get his
living honestly, preferred, for our national bird, the wild turkey, but
mating for life – what’s not to like? Google Eagles and DDT, find
No adverse effects on humans, domestic animals, or wildlife – really?
Opinions graciously accepted. Free speech, I guess, which proliferates,
propagates like these eagles, where on a good day I
question how there could be so much chattering and pealing,
roosting and gliding. That there would be so many juveniles
soaring over the water, diving down to nab a perch.
Talon-grabbing and tumbling while mating. Cloacal kissing.
Utterly promising, isn’t it? A success story! What was alarming
very much less dire now. That we banned it.
Wailed and moaned no, no, no. That the EPA prevented
X-ing out a regal raptor that’s been around a million years, its
(yowzers) reptilian past. Stopped the slide from abundantly robust to
zero. That we might restore tall grass prairies, save the bees that feed us.
~Martha Silano
Dear Sandhill Crane,
I’ve heard you in fields and by the river
of great gatherings – symphonies of purrs
and gurgles that sound like “r”s swimming
in your throat. Even without that trumpet call,
I’ve heard your wings vibrate the air, long neck –
with beak that can drill a coyote’s skull –
cutting the wind. You and your mate dance, call
to each other in a synchronized, complex duet.
Of the genus Antigone, you’ve been here
2.5 million years, survived by gathering and
foraging together for reptiles, snails,
amphibians, sorghum and waste corn.
Walking, your head moves like a snake. But
in the sky, riding the thermals, you’re an arrow.
~Susan Landgraf
Northern Flicker Reconsidered
If a bird could become
a poem, and why not—
promenade through wayward
stanzas, lift their couplets
of wings—what then? A high
wik-a, wik-a alchemical spell:
a cry of the unprintable?
Could a flicker know heartbreak,
practice self-restraint?
Their fashion leans bold—polka dots
and stripes, bright cinnamon
to morning fog hues. The male,
handsome, with his patch of mustache.
I would become his lifelong mate
should I return as a bird—celebrated
Shad-spirit, Cotton-Rump—
with the longest bird tongue
in North America.
This ode to plurality—
this epic boundless—then—
cross-stitched together
on the pages of Northwest sky.
~Susan Rich