Field Notes from an Old Chair
written by: D.R. James
Well, they’ve come, these early crews,
though it’s only March, which in Michigan
means maybe warm one day,
the few new tender greens making
sense, then frigid and snow the next four,
the fragile bodies ballooned, all fuzz
but feeding and competing just the same.
Who would’ve ever guessed I’d be happy
anticipating birds? Since I’ve taken up
the old folks’ study of how certain species
seem to like each other, showing up in sync
like the field guides specify, my chair’s
been scribing the inside arc between the feeder
and where I’ll catch a bloody sun going down.
Then, mornings, if I forget, two doves startle me
when I startle them from a window well,
and as if the fearless chickadees and titmice,
jittery finches and nuthatches can read
they trade places on perches all day—
size, I notice, and no doubt character
determining order, amount, duration.
At this point I could’ve written the pages
on juncos or my one song sparrow so far,
plumped and content to peck along the deck beneath.
And that pair of cardinals I’d hoped for?
They’ve set up shop somewhere in the hedgerows
and for now eat together, appearing
to enjoy each other’s company, while above
out back crows crisscross the crisp expanse
between the high bones of dormant trees
and the high ground that runs the dune down
to the loosened shore. Soon hawks will hover,
and when a bloated fish washes up overnight,
luring vultures to join the constant, aimless
gulls, I’ll be amused I’d ever worried
that the birds would never come.
- Same Old Same Old - October 10, 2024
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