You’ll say
I’m anthropomorphizing
reading too much into things
projecting
making something out of nothing
making it about me.
But the lone Barrow’s Goldeneye
looked directly at me
and didn’t look away.
We held our gaze for some time
one unblinking yellow orb
two tired hazel human eyes.
Initially I thought I was lucky
to behold this winged creature
tame enough to remain still
watching the rainy night montage
tourists and die-hard joggers
the only people crazy enough
to note the mists and roar
of water crashing over the locks
on a miserable night
as rain pelted down.
It took some time
for my eyes to discern
black plumage
a mesh outline
enshrouding the placid body
ruffled feathers in a shiny diamond pattern
gray rain
gray metal lattice
gray capture net
one orange leg loose,
dangling down.
Time ought to be measured in the delay
between retinal images
sent upstream to the optic nerve
and emergent awareness
flipped right-side up
blurry edges focusing
realization crystalizing
stomach sinking
understanding:
This is not an innocent wildlife sighting.
This is a death tableau.
He would never get out of that net.
He could not turn his head to look away.
Black-plumed and masculine
perhaps the only thing I consistently remember about birds –
how the splendored males posture and perform
for drab brown females –
amid the crash of the spillway dams
and tainter gates
his unblinking yellow eye
conveyed a final invitation
to this unadorned, drab female
to partner with him for life
short as it was destined to be
to bear witness to Death –
that wily bastard
who traps and tricks fresh victims
rather than wait patiently
that heavy-handed teacher,
all drama and rhetoric,
whose message seems lost no matter how many times
we sit through the lesson.
It was all I could do to refrain from
pulling out my phone
snapping a picture
revealing my vulturine nature
treating all creatures
who twist and die in my path
as poetic carrion
feed to my hunger
my bloodlust for word.
With bold entreaty,
we gaze into the eyes of the last person we will ever see
issue our final invitation of intimacy
too often, declined
with a turned head,
guilty and grateful
to be alive
to walk away
to feel cold mist
to watch clouds move across the night sky
to plunder death for poesy.
Again, the lesson unheeded.
Shouldn’t we choose
with more care
the unwitting witness
of our surrender –
the last retinal image
before our eyes close for the final time?