Island Bird


I put my thoughts into a box, a simple container 
that in turn may become a boat or a bird
or the body of a fawn freshly struck,
its lungs and viscera exposed


A boat because of the great load it can carry
or a bird because the black-capped chickadee
is so small and light that a million thoughts
can be carried in the hollow bones of each leg


I push the box ahead, filled, as it is, with worry to the brim 
but never full. I leave it for anyone to take though no one does:
In the middle of the road, driven over a thousand times
or at the dock, ropes slackened, the tide gone missing


The chickadee tosses its head, flecks flying, which may be 
thoughts or sunflower seeds from the feeder, neither of which
will be buried where they fell despite the digging 
and the scritching of tiny clawed feet


The doe stands just off the road
expecting the fawn to follow


I put these visions into the box
I push the box ahead with my foot
I push the boat, loaded with boxes, from the dock
I ascend with the hollow bird 
while the world, 
the patient world, 
waits below