We caught the end of the movie on the hotel cable
in Missouri somewhere, after we’d overdosed on edibles
(take half, the guy said, but he meant half a dose
not half the gummy—well) I fell into it first,
a great roaring, a splitting of time and sense,
its finale was interminable, and deep,
and I felt it might never end.
Home, from the trip, metaphoric and literal,
I observe that the character of the birds
at our feeders has changed
since Summer ended. Gone
are the rows of dainty sparrows
waiting their turn,
the plethora of different finches,
no more starlings and cow-birds, all fled,
grosbeaks, and woodpeckers,
replaced by sublimely lovely titmice,
with their ombre bodies and dark eyes,
many chickadees, who mince about,
or bluster all puffed up,
until the Jays storm in. God
how these latter loom larger in inches
than I ever remembered,
(they’re corvids did you know!)
and strut about with affected
menace, angry. I should like to be a bird
or at least a poet, one day,
if only out of penance.
—
Benjamin Harnett is a poet, fiction writer, historian, and digital engineer. His poetry has appeared recently in Poet Lore, Saranac Review, ENTROPY, and the Evansville Review. He is the author of the novel THE HAPPY VALLEY and the short story collection GIGANTIC. He lives in Cherry Valley, NY with his wife Toni and their collection of eccentric pets. He works for The New York Times.