As I look out
over the tidal salt marshes
that separate the rocky beaches of southern Maine
and the frigid Atlantic
from the old New England
fishing village of Wells
and the farming towns beyond
I can barely discern
the familiar cry of the catbird
desperately calling my name
amidst the cacophony of frenetic
morning bird bitching
or celebratory avian accolade
even the pensive owl
mostly mute
proffered once his perennial question
prompting a brief moment of tensile
if not hysterical
silence
before the unanimous response
rose out of the beaks of the masses
from the reeds and rushes of the salty swampland
from the birches and briars the fog bank
and invisible whorls of sea smoke beyond
from the growing mud flats where the stoic crane
is usually standing stiff and silent
to the wuthering heights where raptors circle
slowly and methodically
They shouted the answer
again and again
some yelling as angrily as fowl can
others frustrated or tired of telling him
many sympathetically
closer to him and aware
of the sadness and deep sorrow
of a perpetual philosophical quagmire
from which he will never be extracted
But only one was silent
only one
uttered no sound at all
not on this particular morning
or any morning
for thousands of mornings before
quietly listening in her subterranean grotto
to the ridiculous pandemonium overhead
biting her tongue
waiting
counting eons in the dark preparing
for her eventual and final ascent
the Phoenix opened her eyes
the Phoenix listened
to her name as it was shouted
in the crowded
tidal salt marshes above.
So, as I was working on this poem, listening to the myriad of birds shouting and bellowing in the cool Maine morning of the salt marsh, I kept thinking of this wonderful painting I had seen last Fall. My memory is questionable at times, but I'm pretty sure it was a Dahlov Ipcar painting and I am almost certain it hangs on the wall of the Rockport Public Library--one of the best little libraries I have ever seen--and the piece shows a whole multicolored array of fantastic feathered flying wonderbirds. It's called something like "Bird Festival" or "Bird Party in the Morning" or something along those lines. I was totally taken by the thing and have thought about it many times since. Particularly the morning I wrote the lines above. For those of you who aren't familiar with the Maine artist and children's book author, Dahlov Ipcar, I encourage you to look into her body of work.
