Mollie Chambers

The Last Birds

The bird’s name matters little

except to those who travel

to the park where the few

that remain of the species

gather on branches, fly above

the marsh.  These birds should be

more careful, shouldn’t dip

so close to the seaweed covered

water, or dart between branches

as they do.  Each wing flap,

each dried worm plucked

from too hard ground

could mean ruin.

Old men with binoculars

walk the gravel path, filling

feeders, checking the stability

of the small houses, searching

in silence for their chance

to see what few have seen.

the elusive beauty gliding

over their heads, hiding

behind branches thick

with leaves- though thinning

lately.  We discussed this

on our last trip there. 

life abandoning the marsh.

the way the oak refuses-

just this once- to allow

painted leaves to hang from its sleepy

limbs, birds to take shelter

there, high above our observations

about the symbiosis of bird

and watcher, marsh and geese,

sometimes, you hypothesize,

even husband and wife.

And we lament the coming on

of cool, the days we’ll spend

hibernating, nights too long

and harsh for the last birds

on earth.  And our words fall,

a fiery red

in the now gray sky.