Blackbird

Sitting in the pine straw
statue-still,
black eyes glaring
under the watchful gaze
of the bob-tailed cat,
the baby waited its fate.
To live or die by parents’ succor
or the claw’s honed grip.
The suspense was too much
so I scooped it up as
it pecked my fingers instinctively
and carried the ruffled bird inside
to nestle in a shoe box
with its sibling similarly
gathered earlier in the day;
fed buttermilk and bread
from a dropper
until it stopped showing
the pink-lined spread of its bill.

When morning came
only one was alive
and I wondered if
the other would soon die.
It didn’t and
slowly grew into adolescence,
taught to feed itself and
drink water from a cup,
given trinkets and a swing to sway.
But I knew its heart’s desire
even as it sat upon my shoulder,
pulling at the shiny dangles
hanging from my earlobe.
I observed its gaze toward the outside world,
the azure expanse, the tall pines;
its kinsfolk lined on rugged limbs.

So one day I carried
the cage outside and
hung it on the frame
of the outdoor swing
opened the door and waited.
Half of me wanted it to be free,
the other half wanted it to stay
a prisoner of safety and security.
It hesitated, confounded
by the smells and sounds
and lack of walls
then hopped on the threshold,
raised its wings and
flew in ever-widening circles
around the yard.
I held my breath and watched
as it sprinted from tree to tree
until it was gone from view.

The rest of the day and the next
I stared into the dark pines
until my neck hurt
wondering if it was there
regarding me
knowing me,
or if in its joy of ultimate release,
its former world had been forgotten.

But I noted, as if for the first time,
how blackbirds perch on the topmost sprig
and sing to the sun.
　
© 2000 Melissa Songer