The Birds of America

THE BIRDS OF AMERICA
Early this morning in a rumpled bed, listening to birdsong through the propped-open windows,
I saw on the ceiling the figure of John J. Audubon kneeling before
the pliant body of an expired duck.
I could see its slender, limp neck, rich chestnut crown, the soft grey throat, and bright red bill,
even the strange pink legs.
And when I closed my eyes again
I could hear him whisper in his hybrid Creole accent
I have taken your life so that some night a man might open a book
and run his hand over your fеathers,
so that he could come closе enough to study your pale brown flecks, your white chin patch,
and the electric green of your neck,
so that he might approach without frightening you into the sky, and wonder how strange to the earth he has become,