Varied Thrush
The Varied Thrush lay, one wing
open on the deck after a thud
—his feathers clung to the
window like tiny moths
pressing into the afternoon light.
I remember the moment when:
with trembling trepidation
I gathered his liquid light body
in the palms of my hands on
that cold, November day
he lay pulsing, in my hands, eyes
closed, his body warm and soft,
toes of one foot wrapped
around my index finger
the other curled into himself.
I remember the moment when:
softly I spoke, slowly he turned,
your flock is waiting, listen,
they are calling, their long trills
through the wind, waiting
a jay perched on the railing
tilting it’s black crown, ever curious
the hummingbird’s red breast
shimmering two feet away
hovering as if—
I remember the moment when:
he opened one dark, banded eye
under an orange brow and blinked,
looking, I was there—and not
three eyes held in place unblinking—
his dark necklace over russet
breast, black feathers, marking
white warnings, his head resting
his gentle, one-eyed look unwavering
his body becoming lighter still.
I remember the moment when:
he clasped my finger
with all his toes
weight shifting, lifting from
my hands, adjusting feathers
he swivelled his head
looked straight at me
both eyes—nostrils this close,
unflinching, the short took, tooks,
still waiting—knowing.
I remember the moment when:
he straightened, teetering, regal
my heart skipping higher still
both a little tipsy, to stay or to go
the warmth lifting, light shifting
he stood, grasping, long and still
listening, listening, looking
here, there—that moment
with one quick poop
—off he flew.
© Cristina Viviani 2022
Thank you, Roger Housden for the writing prompt.