We’re in the full flush of summer here, where Maine gets some Deep South-type heat and humidity and lots of folks complain about it. (Would they rather shovel snow?) Heavy rains and hot sunny days are making everything green grow and burst into bloom. Before first light, a cacophony of birds breaks out in the neighborhood. I keep refilling the bird feeder, and my bird bath often has a waiting line. This poem is by Maine’s redoubtable George Van Deventer. It’s dedicated to my sister Charlotte, who has toiled for many years (as a volunteer) for the Audobon Society where she lives in Washington state, not that far from the Other Portland.
When birds die
Imagine a day without bird song.
The ear would wither
like leaves in December.
Song fills all there is about us:
chickadee, raven, barnyard hen,
heron deep and raspy.
Finch in a cage.
Song of the eye in
a falcon’s whistle.
Pigeons coo
off the hand that feeds them.
Crows rattle the air
in an acclamation of company.
When the mine bird dies
we hear the silence
of its song.
GEORGE VAN DEVENTER, July 2014
