Audubon’s Peewees

He sat with them until the baby birds took him

for one of them, his hairless hand

a mothering none resisted, the sighing

French hum of homesickness their ordinary

when he came, treats of worms, grubs,

a drop of goat milk for the dying one. Useless.

Silver threads, light as moon slip on night weeds,

they plucked and picked at until freed.

Life being a game, he attached them, then

dark-riddled, one by one, they removed themselves.

Blended into the nest, invisible but for eye-gleam,

all but one lost when winter drove them away.

But where? A dream. With the moon sliding

past snow’s patches old nests welcome.

Father oaks wailed in wind, monstrous shadows.

Dear little fellow, waking him, he would ask.

Half-closed, black eye blinking until it stopped.

What path? By what water? How to prepare?

The frayed silver flag it bore quickening,

the would-be artist leaned close.

And held his breath, and drew it so.