Life List
— American goldfinch; Winston-Salem, North Carolina
First the horrible, reverberating thud
against the glass wall of the student union.
Then the discovery, huddled on the sidewalk.
A wonder it hasn’t been stepped on.
Only as I’m holding it do students notice,
a few stopping to ask, Is it dead? No,
just stunned. Probably concussed, tucked in
on itself, black and brassy feathers just as
I remember from my mother’s pocket Audubon.
Her favorite guide for our hikes through the woods
when I was young, listening for meadowlark, for thrush.
She taught me the importance of quiet,
my flipping of the book’s pages, even, too loud.
Behind the closed door of my office, I sometimes
take it from my shelf and leaf through her life list:
a few sheets of spiral notebook paper
tucked inside the front cover. There, in her tight
penmanship, eagles and falcons over Horseshoe Lake,
burrowing desert owls, condors on the coast.
The goldfinch. Here, in my hands. A little
encouragement, gentle tossing motion
by my cupped hand—suddenly remembering flight.
The bird collecting itself for a minute
on a low-hanging branch before skittering off
to a bigger tree, then out of sight. Washing my hands
in the bathroom by my office, I blink at myself
in the mirror. Small graces. Desk clock.
Fountain pen. Old paper, thin and translucent
as onionskin. Nothing to bury or mourn today.