108. American Bittern (Myshkin, 2021) · free verse

My heart, right now, is half closed with shame. Maybe three quarters closed. The drawbridge mostly up, Hackles raised, Jets scrambled, State of emergency called, Curfew enacted for all the normals of my world. Kayaking on the canal, Spotting manatees and crocodiles With dear strangers Abby, Ally and Jill, I heard them calling every bird “Larry,” A sweet, creative oversimplification Basketball fans will understand. Now it’s morning again (for one of us at least) And Larry lies limp at my feet. He was crossing the main Everglades road, slowly, With the weirdest, staggered walk I’ve ever seen. I was speeding by at least 30 miles an hour. I slowed down as much as I could And braced for impact, But there was almost none. His thin body put up about as much resistance As a plastic bag. I doubled back and moved Larry out of the road, Wanting to feel the impact of my deed, Wanting to feel the grief I knew was buried, Wanting to send him off with some ceremony. I was terrified he might be half alive, And I would need to end his suffering with my bare hands, But he was already gone. Some tears did come. Seeing Larry from a distance I had no idea how soft his feathers were, How intricate and fragile his long, curved neck, Even his claws seem manicured, The long sharp yellow-and-white beak, his only weapon, Useless against the machinery of doom. Holding his delicate, still-warm body in my hands, The power differential between us so vast, My guilty thoughts went directly To the selfishness of speeding In a national park. And also the intersection of civilization and nature, Habitats destroyed so we can build more houses, Even their last refuge fraught with peril, As ruthless Schrödingers like me Peek inside the box.