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 fall 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