The Blessed Event

They’re here! They’re here! The eggs on the bell tower have hatched sometime last night, and the nest is now home to three adorable seagull chicks.

Bell tower? Yep: in the last couple of weeks I noticed another seagull nest, built on the southwest corner of the Cathedral’s taller bell tower. But since it’s almost exactly at eye level with my work, I couldn’t see the eggs.

They’re here! They’re here! The eggs on the bell tower have hatched sometime last night, and the nest is now home to three adorable seagull chicks.

Bell tower? Yep: in the last couple of weeks I noticed another seagull nest, built on the southwest corner of the Cathedral’s taller bell tower. But since it’s almost exactly at eye level with my work, I couldn’t see the eggs.

However, I could see the eggs at 650 Richards. Most of the time a gull was sitting on the nest, but I was lucky enough to catch them switching off. Yes, apparently seagull parents take turns sitting on the eggs. That surprised me, though in hindsight it shouldn’t have. I’d just assumed (sexist me!) that the female sat, and the male went off hunting and fed her. Just because I’d never seen him do it was not evidence against my theory.

So that was on the 11th, the day after my last seagull entry. I saw them switching, grabbed the binoculars, and briefly gazed in wonder upon three dark greenish-grey eggs, blending in wonderfully with the earth/moss nest. Without binoculars, I would probably have missed them, and definitely couldn’t have counted them.

And then… I waited. A couple times I saw them switch, or the sitting parent would get up to stretch its legs a bit, and I’d confirm that, yep, three eggs. Still not hatched. A few times I saw the gull pick at the nest, rearranging the mossy bits. Damn, how boring must it be if even the seagulls get antsy? Then again, they would get easily bored, wouldn’t they? They’re creatures of wide open spaces, surrounded by dozens of their fellows all the time. Must be hard to just… sit.

Wednesday, June 13th: a half-dozen gulls drove off an eagle. It was majestically soaring higher than the tallest skyscrapers, higher than seagulls normally fly, but it was still too close for comfort.

Wednesday, June 20th: hey, it’s panting. A panting seagull, how about that? But I guess it’s boiling, sitting like that in full sunlight. And since birds don’t sweat, it’s got to bleed off its excess heat somehow. Makes sense, right? Yet one more thing I never thought about.

As of today the first clutch of eggs haven’t hatched (I assume, since they’re still being sat on). But that’s okay, because I’m being wildly entertained by the tower chicks. Again, I need binoculars to see them because their down is a dark mottled grey-brown, excellent camouflage. And they’re surprisingly mobile for their age. I’d imagined bald little chicks, nothing but huge open beaks constantly begging for food from mama. But these kids are happily waddling along, exploring their home (all three square feet of it), occasionally begging for food, but mostly just… being babies, y’know? Walking around, looking around, preening their down, bumping into things and each other, always watched by one or more parents. They’re not quite alike, which is also interesting: it looks like one is quite a bit darker than its siblings. Natural selection at work. The ones who blend it best with their surroundings are less likely to be eaten.

A few times a chick would try to fly. Props for already having the right instincts, but it just amounted to them hopping up and down while flapping their useless little wings. Still, I laughed out loud because OMG SO CUTE!!!!!

Now I can’t wait to see them really learn to fly. In fact I’m tempted to buy a telephoto lens just for that.

And now they’re shacking up

Well, that answers that question.

A couple of weeks ago I wondered where the two gulls would settle down. Turns out they settled down right on the roof where they consummated their union. At least I assume it’s the same couple—not to sound speciesist or anything, but seagulls all kind of look alike to me.

Well, that answers that question.

A couple of weeks ago I wondered where the two gulls would settle down. Turns out they settled down right on the roof where they consummated their union. At least I assume it’s the same couple—not to sound speciesist or anything, but seagulls all kind of look alike to me.

So on Monday, they were tearing up bits of the moss growing on the roof (I’m almost positive it’s 650 Richards St, one of the buildings adjunct to the Holy Rosary Cathedral) to make a dandy little nest right next to the chimney, affording them a bit of shelter against the wind and the rain. They needed it, too, because the weather this week has been pretty bad for the season.

The female (I assume it’s the female) has spent all her time in the nest, moving only to change direction or readjust her butt. The male spends most of his time away, probably hunting. Since the female isn’t getting her own food the male must be feeding her but I’ve yet to see it. It might just be happening a couple of times a day, when I’m not at work. When he is nearby, he usually stands on the chimney or at the edge of the roof looking around, hardly ever getting close to the nest. Interesting. I’d expected more… maybe not affection, but at least contact from time to time. But there you go, that’s just mammalian bias.

On Tuesday the male fought off a crow, who’d probably seen the nest and came looking for eggs. It was a gorgeous aerial battle, with the black bird and the white bird swooping around and snapping at each other for a few minutes. And you know, seagulls are pretty darn nimble. They don’t usually need to be, but the buggers can turn on a dime with just little twitches of their great big wings.

The male stayed near the nest for a couple of hours after that, obviously on high alert, but there were no more marauding crows. I noticed he was picking at its right wing a lot. At first I thought he might be injured, but it looked like he was just preening his feathers. What would happen if it were injured, though? Could the female make it as a single mom?

I don’t know, but she probably wouldn’t need to. On Friday the male was in another fight, this time with another seagull. He got to keep his territory (such as it was) but it made me wonder: what if it had lost? Was the other male (I assume it was a male) making a play just for the real estate or the female as well? And if the latter, would it destroy the eggs as soon as she laid them and force her to mate with him? Other species do this. It’s nasty, but it makes perfect sense from a natural selection perspective. No sense in spending energy raising chicks that don’t carry your genetic code.

I don’t know if the female has started laying eggs yet. I’ll bring binoculars tomorrow.

Today I saw two seagulls doing it

Heh. Well, it’s that time of year. They were on a roof, across the street and a few storeys below my window. The male was sitting on top of the female for a couple of minutes after a co-worker pointed them out. Just… sitting there. Not moving, no bamp-chicka-bamp music. Then he flapped his wings a bit, and the female scooted out from under him. They hung around the roof for a couple of hours. Frankly I was a bit disappointed, but I assume they enjoyed it, and that’s what counts, right?

Heh. Well, it’s that time of year. They were on a roof, across the street and a few storeys below my window. The male was sitting on top of the female for a couple of minutes after a co-worker pointed them out. Just… sitting there. Not moving, no bamp-chicka-bamp music. Then he flapped his wings a bit, and the female scooted out from under him. They hung around the roof for a couple of hours. Frankly I was a bit disappointed, but I assume they enjoyed it, and that’s what counts, right?

I wonder where they’re going to build their nest. Gulls traditionally build them along the coast, right? Then again, the water is just a short hop from downtown in three out of four directions. Wherever they settle down, I wish them luck.

PS: it looked like the male was a bit larger than the female, and its wings a bit darker grey. Interesting. I never thought there was any sexual dimorphism in gulls, but there you go.

Burn in Hell, Jerry Falwell

Okay, I wasn’t going to write about Falwell’s death… but then I thought, what the hell, all the cool kids are doing it. Let’s start with a stirring eulogy by Christopher Hitchens:

Okay, I wasn’t going to write about Falwell’s death… but then I thought, what the hell, all the cool kids are doing it. Let’s start with a stirring eulogy by Christopher Hitchens:

“People like that should be out in the street, shouting and hollering with a cardboard sign and selling pencils from a cup.” Ha! Yeah, Hitchens is kind of an obnoxious asshole who loves to hear himself talk sometimes (seriously, “Chaucerian frauds”?). But when he’s right, he’s right.

Marc Adams came to SFU in 1998 to talk about his experiences growing up gay in a fundamentalist Baptist environment. Adams had gone to Falwell’s Liberty University. He survived—not all gay students did.

Marc talked about Kent, a student who was kicked out of Liberty for being gay. Even though they were in the same prayer group together, Marc was too busy trying to “become straight” to reach out to Kent. They never talked about being gay, not even as Marc helped Kent carry his suitcases to the curb. Marc feared a close association with Kent would arouse suspicions about his own sexuality. “A couple months after that I got a letter from him in the mail and the first thing he said was that his parents obviously did not kill him, but they did throw him out of the house and he was living on the street. He told me though, that he had found a way to cure himself of his homosexuality, that he had been able to do it, and he left a phone number for me to call. And so I called the number and it rang to his parents house and his brother told me how Kent had, just a couple days earlier, broken into their house and taken one of his father’s guns, and blown off the back of his head.”

I remember some members of the audience were in tears during Adams’ talk. Me, I wasn’t crying; I was angry. If I’d had the power, I would have cheerfully burned Liberty University to the ground right then. Though he didn’t pull the trigger, Falwell and his followers are to blame for filling that boy’s head with lies, fear and shame, making him feel he had no other options.

Here’s something I didn’t know: before getting into the homophobia and anti-abortion business in the 70’s, Falwell used to be a segregationist. From a sermon he made four years after the 1954 landmark case Brown v. Board of Education:

“If Chief Justice Warren and his associates had known God’s word and had desired to do the Lord’s will, I am quite confident that the 1954 decision would never have been made,” Falwell boomed from above his congregation in Lynchburg. “The facilities should be separate. When God has drawn a line of distinction, we should not attempt to cross that line.”

Falwell’s jeremiad continued: “The true Negro does not want integration… He realizes his potential is far better among his own race.” Falwell went on to announce that integration “will destroy our race eventually. In one northern city,” he warned, “a pastor friend of mine tells me that a couple of opposite race live next door to his church as man and wife.”

Not too surprising from a little toad (thanks, Christopher!) whose other career highlights include bigotry, lies, corruption, and the outing of Tinky Winky. Blaise Pascal wrote, “Men never do evil so completely and cheerfully as when they do it from religious conviction.” Falwell spent his life proving Pascal right, and inspiring others to do the same. He was a monster and a creator of monsters. The world is better off without him.

PS: This will blow your irony meters. Apparently, Fred Phelps (yes, that Fred Phelps) will picket Falwell’s funeral. For real. Damn, that’s too funny.

We Shall Overcome: The Seeger Sessions

I recently bought Bruce Springsteen’s We Shall Overcome: The Seeger Sessions, a collection of American folk and gospel songs. Frankly, I’d never paid much attention to Springsteen; but one day on the train, I was listening to Dancing in the Dark and a coworker asked me if I had any other Springsteen songs on my iPod. I didn’t, so I went online, and found this album. What actually caught my eye was the title of one of the tracks: the famous gospel hymn O Mary Don’t You Weep.

I recently bought Bruce Springsteen’s We Shall Overcome: The Seeger Sessions, a collection of American folk and gospel songs. Frankly, I’d never paid much attention to Springsteen; but one day on the train, I was listening to Dancing in the Dark and a coworker asked me if I had any other Springsteen songs on my iPod. I didn’t, so I went online, and found this album. What actually caught my eye was the title of one of the tracks: the famous gospel hymn O Mary Don’t You Weep.

Well if I could I surely would
Stand on the rock where Moses stood
Pharaoh’s army got drownded
O Mary don’t you weep

I’d never heard the song before… but it was familiar. They sung the two lines of the chorus in episode #6 of Dykes To Watch Out For (that’s the Seder episode, collected in More Dykes To Watch Out For). I didn’t know then what kind of song it was, only that the lyrics did seem appropriate for Passover, what with the Red Sea crossing and all. And while I originally thought the “Mary” was Miriam, Aaron’s sister who sang when Pharaoh’s army got drownded (c.f.: Exodus 15:20–21), it’s really Mary Madgalene grieving for Jesus—which I thought was interesting since most of the images are from the Old Testament. More on that later.

God gave Noah the rainbow sign
No more water, but fire next time
Pharaoh’s army got drownded
O Mary don’t you weep

The song is fantastically catchy, with a boisterous jazzy sound that maybe isn’t historically correct, but I won’t complain. I’m not that much of a purist, and I trust The Boss to respect his sources.

I’d heard previous versions of two of the songs on this album: How Can I Keep From Singing? was recorded by Enya on Shepherd Moons. I’m not sure which I prefer; Enya’s style is perfectly suited to this quiet, low-key hymn, but Springsteen’s version has many people singing together, which gives it a very different feel—that of a community united in song. The second familiar song is Jesse James, already covered by The Pogues on Rum, Sodomy & The Lash. Springsteen’s version is far better, without the annoying pistol-shot sound effects and that banjo bit at the very end. I don’t know, it feels like The Pogues were to make it self-consciously “American,” which is just irritating for those of us from this side of the pond. Plus, Bruce’s voice was better, and so was his music.

Speaking of folk heroes, I adored his rendition of John Henry, the steel-driving man. A man who probably didn’t exist but whose story has been raised to the status of myth over the last century and a half. They sure don’t make ’em like that anymore.

I totally misunderstood My Oklahoma Home the first few times I listened to it. It sounded like one man’s love for his homeland (“Well I’m a roam’n Oklahoman/But I’m always close to home/I’ll never get homesick until I die”); with the farm and wife being “blown away” as sort of humorous episodes to explain his freedom of movement. But the song is not about freedom, it’s about loss, about the Dust Bowl: the man’s farm is destroyed by the drought and wind, leaving him poor (“Everything except my mortgage blown away”), alone, homeless and drifting.

So I took off down the road
Yeah when the South wind blowed
I traveled with the wind upon my back

Yet wherever he roams his farm is always near, and he keeps hearing his animals and wife on the wind, so… it’s not all negative? Maybe I’m still not getting the song. As a city boy born and raised, I’ve never felt the pull of the “American Dream,” the need to settle down and own a piece of land.

Fun little factoid: the song mentions a race to stake out land. This probably refers to one of the several Oklahoma land runs, the first of which took place on April 22nd, 1889. I learned about that one in particular from reading Lucky Luke (issue #12, La Ruée sur l’Oklahoma). Ah, memories.

Buffalo Gals is a bouncy little song about prostitutes. The gals in question were in Buffalo, NY, the western end of the Erie Canal. Shippers who’d traveled 300 miles from the Hudson River to Lake Erie could dance with the dollies by the light of the moon—for a price.

Froggie Went A-Courtin’ is a cute little song about a frog marrying a mouse. It reminds me a lot of Pinci-Pincette, a traditional French-Canadian song covered by La Bottine Souriante. In both songs there’s a wedding, lots of animal guests bringing food and entertainment, and hilarious mayhem when those guests are attacked by a nasty predator (a big black snake in Froggie, the house cat in Pinci-Pincette). The liner notes say earlier versions of the song date back to 16th century Scotland. I guess funny animal antics are a common denominator in many cultures.

Eyes on the Prize is another soft and quiet gospel hymn. At first I just listened to the melody without paying much attention to the words. The chorus (“Keep your eyes on the prize/Hold on”) seemed just another exhortation to focus on your Heavenly reward at the expense of your life on Earth. As an atheist, of course, that sort of thing rubs me the wrong way. But then I read the lyrics and the liner notes, and my perspective changed.

Only chain that a man can stand
Is that chain of hand on hand
Keep your eyes on the prize
Hold on

I’m gonna board that big Greyhound
Carry the love from town to town
Keep your eyes on the prize
Hold on

The line about the big Greyhound has to refer to the Freedom Rides and so can’t be older than 1961. (That’s perfectly fine; folk songs are not set in stone, but evolve over time, according to the needs of the singer and their audience. In fact, the liner notes say Eyes on the Prize was rewritten in 1956 by Alice Wine, a civil rights activist.) Once I made that connection, I listened to the other gospel songs on the album with fresh ears, over and over… and over and over. I’d known, intellectually, that Christian abolitionist and civil rights activists were inspired by their religion but I hadn’t really understood how. Scriptures and hymns never inspired my activism; I saw them at best as quaint distractions and at worst as tools of oppression when thrown out by bigoted Christians. But here were all these Biblical images of hope and renewal and liberation: the rainbow after the Flood, Jacob’s Ladder, the Israelites leaving Egypt, Jesus returning from the dead, prison doors opening before Paul and Silas (c.f.: Acts 16:16–25). No preaching or dogma, just inspiration for love, brotherhood, and changing things for the better. And for the first time in a long while, I felt Christian hymns spoke to me. Wow. Maybe all I needed was the right singer?

Maybe all I needed was the right message in those hymns. It’s a tricky thing, religion, because what you get out of it is exactly what you bring in. You could read the Flood story and focus on the rainbow sign and renewal of the Earth… or take the story literally and spend your whole life searching for Noah’s Ark. You could read Exodus and be inspired by the Israelites’ march from slavery and bondage into a better Promised Land… or start dreaming of conquest and Manifest Destiny when reading what they did to said Promised Land when they got there. I guess it’s natural that images that inspire activists would also touch me.

You could say O Mary Don’t You Weep, Jacob’s Ladder and Eyes on the Prize are the counterpoint to those old-time missionary tracts I blogged about a while ago. They are part of the same religion, nominally, but otherwise are complete opposites, inspiring action instead of empty prayers, hope instead of fatalism, human dignity instead of servility, a loving God instead of a wrathful God.

The Seeger Sessions is an amazing album, full of songs that made me giggle, made me bounce, made me reflect… sometimes all three at the same time. That’s the thing I love about folk music: it’s a glimpse into different cultures, perhaps different languages or different times. And even for the slower songs, there’s an energy, a vitality that I don’t hear in most modern music. During the recording sessions included on the DVD side (all live, with no rehearsals) you can see the musicians not only having a blast, but also showing off their skills: improvising, jamming, playing with the melodies. It was totally awesome.

Dude, Where’s My Flying Car?

Now here’s an awesome blog I just discovered: Paleo-Future, a look at how past generations saw the future (which is often our present). Domed, weather-controlled cities! Flying cars! Segways!

Now here’s an awesome blog I just discovered: Paleo-Future, a look at how past generations saw the future (which is often our present). Domed, weather-controlled cities! Flying cars! Segways! (seriously) Synthetic food! Robotic servants! (They better have those Three Laws, though…)

As one commenter said about such futurology: “it describes the present, with tailfins.” Heh.

La Conscience

I’m in a French mood this time. Must be from reading Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables. So let’s cap off this month with one of Hugo’s most stunning and grandiose poems: La Conscience. Because some days, there’s just no substitute for a Biblical epic recounted in florid Romantic language. This is the story of Cain’s flight after killing Abel: he tries to run from his guilt (represented as a celestial Eye that only he can see), then tries to hide, to no avail.

I’m in a French mood this time. Must be from reading Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables. So let’s cap off this month with one of Hugo’s most stunning and grandiose poems: La Conscience. Because some days, there’s just no substitute for a Biblical epic recounted in florid Romantic language. This is the story of Cain’s flight after killing Abel: he tries to run from his guilt (represented as a celestial Eye that only he can see), then tries to hide, to no avail. This work is full of larger-than-life mythical figures and over-the-top emotions accompanied by violent weather, as befits a Romantic poem. The meter is flawless (alexandrine verse? oh yes), the language is exquisite, the images are gripping. Truly, a masterpiece.

La Conscience

Lorsque avec ses enfants vêtus de peaux de bêtes,
Échevelé, livide au milieu des tempêtes,
Caïn se fut enfui de devant Jéhovah,
Comme le soir tombait, l’homme sombre arriva
Au bas d’une montagne en une grande plaine ;
Sa femme fatiguée et ses fils hors d’haleine
Lui dirent : — Couchons-nous sur la terre, et dormons. —
Caïn, ne dormant pas, songeait au pied des monts.
Ayant levé la tête, au fond des cieux funèbres
Il vit un œil tout grand ouvert dans les ténèbres,
Et qui le regardait dans l’ombre fixement.
— Je suis trop près, dit-il avec un tremblement.
Il réveilla ses fils dormant, sa femme lasse,
Et se remit à fuir sinistre dans l’espace.
Il marcha trente jours, il marcha trente nuits.
Il allait, muet, pâle et frémissant aux bruits,
Furtif, sans regarder derrière lui, sans trêve,
Sans repos, sans sommeil. Il atteignit la grève
Des mers dans le pays qui fut depuis Assur.
— Arrêtons-nous, dit-il, car cet asile est sûr.
Restons-y. Nous avons du monde atteint les bornes. —
Et, comme il s’asseyait, il vit dans les cieux mornes
L’œil à la même place au fond de l’horizon.
Alors il tressaillit en proie au noir frisson.
— Cachez-moi, cria-t-il ; et, le doigt sur la bouche,
Tous ses fils regardaient trembler l’aïeul farouche.
Caïn dit à Jabel, père de ceux qui vont
Sous des tentes de poil dans le désert profond :
Étends de ce côté la toile de la tente.
Et l’on développa la muraille flottante ;
Et, quand on l’eut fixée avec des poids de plomb :
Vous ne voyez plus rien ? dit Tsilla, l’enfant blond,
La fille de ses fils, douce comme l’aurore ;
Et Caïn répondit : — Je vois cet œil encore !
Jubal, père de ceux qui passent dans les bourgs
Soufflant dans les clairons et frappant des tambours,
Cria : — Je saurai bien construire une barrière.
Il fit un mur de bronze et mit Caïn derrière.
Et Caïn dit : — Cet œil me regarde toujours !
Hénoch dit : — Il faut faire une enceinte de tours
Si terrible, que rien ne puisse approcher d’elle.
Bâtissons une ville avec sa citadelle.
Bâtissons une ville, et nous la fermerons.
Alors Tubalcaïn, père des forgerons,
Construisit une ville énorme et surhumaine.
Pendant qu’il travaillait, ses frères, dans la plaine,
Chassaient les fils d’Enos et les enfants de Seth ;
Et l’on crevait les yeux à quiconque passait ;
Et, le soir, on lançait des flèches aux étoiles.
Le granit remplaça la tente aux murs de toiles,
On lia chaque bloc avec des nœuds de fer,
Et la ville semblait une ville d’enfer ;
L’ombre des tours faisait la nuit dans les campagnes ;
Ils donnèrent aux murs l’épaisseur des montagnes ;
Sur la porte on grava : « Défense à Dieu d’entrer. »
Quand ils eurent fini de clore et de murer,
On mit l’aïeul au centre en une tour de pierre.
Et lui restait lugubre et hagard. — O mon père !
L’œil a-t-il disparu ? dit en tremblant Tsilla.
Et Caïn répondit : — Non, il est toujours là.
Alors il dit : — Je veux habiter sous la terre
Comme dans son sépulcre un homme solitaire ;
Rien ne me verra plus, je ne verrai plus rien. —
On fit donc une fosse, et Caïn dit : C’est bien !
Puis il descendit seul sous cette voûte sombre.
Quand il se fut assis sur sa chaise dans l’ombre
Et qu’on eut sur son front fermé le souterrain,
L’œil était dans la tombe et regardait Caïn.

I Knew Where My Towel Was

We had our end-of-year volleyball tournament yesterday. My team won first place, which surprised the hell out of me. I haven’t won first place at anything in a while, and it was a very/ even game: with only a couple of exceptions, all our matches were won or lost by a handful of points.

We had our end-of-year volleyball tournament yesterday. My team won first place, which surprised the hell out of me. I haven’t won first place at anything in a while, and it was a very/ even game: with only a couple of exceptions, all our matches were won or lost by a handful of points. So I blocked and I passed and I set and I reffed for a bit and then I blocked and passed and yelled some more and sweated like a pig, from morning to mid-afternoon. Good thing I had my towel with me.

Which may not seem like a big thing, but I realized I’d never brought a towel to play. Until this weekend I just used my t-shirt to wipe myself off (yes, even for big tournaments), but I figured maybe I needed a little more. And, who knows? Maybe it’s the towel that helped me win. Because the rest of the players could sass what a hoopy guy I was: they knew they were dealing with a frood who really knew where his towel was, and their strength failed them.

(RIP, Douglas.)

I’m sad to see the season end, but grass volleyball is coming up soon, so it’s all good. Maybe if I bring a towel there too, I’ll end the summer with off-white skin instead of shining alabaster. Unfortunately, tanning is right out. Curse these melanin-impoverished genes what my folks gave me!

Wings Of A Wild Goose

Chrystos is a Native American lesbian poet. I went to one of her readings shortly after I moved to Vancouver. I’d never heard of her before, and was deeply moved by her work. It speaks of the harsh realities of life, poverty and racism and sexism and love and activism and spirituality, and how all these things interact.

Chrystos is a Native American lesbian poet. I went to one of her readings shortly after I moved to Vancouver. I’d never heard of her before, and was deeply moved by her work. It speaks of the harsh realities of life, poverty and racism and sexism and love and activism and spirituality, and how all these things interact. At the time I wanted so much to write like she did, fierce and unapologetic and flowing straight from the heart. The following is from her first collection of poetry, Not Vanishing.

Wings Of A Wild Goose

A hen, one who could have brought more geese, a female, a wild one
dead     Shot by an excited ignorant young blond boy, his first
His mother threw the wings in the garbage     I rinsed them
brought them home, hung them spread wide on my studio wall
A reminder of so much, saving what I can’t bear to be wasted
Wings
I dream of wings which carry me far above human bitterness
human walls     A goose who will have no more tiny pale fluttering
goslings to bring alive     to shelter     to feed     to watch fly
off on new wings     different winds
He has a lawn this boy     A pretty face which was recently paid
thousands of dollars to be in a television commercial     I clean
their house every Wednesday morning
2 dogs which no one brushes     flying hair everywhere
A black rabbit who is almost always out of
water     usually in a filthy cage     I’ve cleaned the cage
out of sympathy a few times although it is not part of what
are called my duties     I check the water as soon as I arrive
This rabbit & those dogs are the boy’s pets     He is very lazy
He watches television constantly leaving the sofa in the den
littered with food wrappers, soda cans, empty cereal bowls
If I’m still there when he comes home, he is rude to me     If he
has his friends with him, he makes fun of me behind my back
I muse on how he will always think of the woods
as an exciting place to kill     This family of three lives
on a five acre farm     They raise no crops     not even their own
vegetables or animals for slaughter     His father is a neurosurgeon
who longs to be a poet     His mother frantically searches
for christian enlightenment     I’m sad for her     though I don’t like
her     because I know she won’t find any     The boy does nothing
around the house to help without being paid     I’m 38 & still
haven’t saved the amount of money he has in a passbook found
in the pillows of the couch under gum wrappers     That dead goose
This boy will probably never understand that it is not right
to take without giving     He doesn’t know how to give     His mother
who cleaned & cooked the goose says she doesn’t really like
to do it but can’t understand why she should feel any different
about the goose than a chicken or hamburger from the supermarket
I bite my tongue & nod     I could explain to her that meat raised
for slaughter is very different than meat taken from the woods
where so few wild beings survive     That her ancestors are
responsible for the emptiness of this land     That lawns feed no
one     that fallow land lined with fences is sinful     That hungry
people need the food they could be growing     That spirituality
is not separate from food or wildness or respect or giving
But she already doesn’t like me     because she suspects me
of reading her husband’s poetry books when no one is around
& she’s right     I do     I need the 32 dollars a week tolerating
them provides me     I wait for the wings on my wall to speak to me
guide my hungers     teach me winds I can’t reach     I keep
these wings because walls are so hard     wildness so rare     because
ignorance must be remembered     because I am female     because I fly
only in my dreams     because I too
will have no young to let go