Ellen Bass

Ellen Bass [examiner.com]

from Ellen Bass’s The Human Line:

Birdsong from My Patio

                  Despair so easy. Hope so hard to bear.

                           — Thomas McGrath

I’ve never heard this much song,

trills pure as crystal bells,

but not like bells: alive, small rushes

of air from the tiny plush lungs

of birds tucked in among the stiff

leaves of the olive and almond,

the lemon with its hard green studs.

As the sun slides down newborn

from thick-muscled clouds

their glittering voices catch the light

like bits of twirling aluminum.

I picture their wrinkled feet

curled around thin branches,

absorbing pesticide.

I see them preening, tainted

feathers sliding through their glossy

beaks, over their leathery tongues.

They’re feeding on contaminated insects,

wild seeds glistening with acid rain.

And their porous, thin-shelled eggs,

bluish or milky or speckled,

lying doomed in each

intricate nest. Everything

is drenched with loss:

the wood thrush and starling,

the unripe fruit of the lemon tree.

With all that’s been ruined

these songs impale the air
with their sharp insistent needles.