KILLDEER Charadrius vociferus. Habitat: Fields, airports,
lawns, riverbanks, shores, golf courses, etc. Nest: A scrape on
bare ground in field, bald spot in pasture, gravel shore, roadway,
sometimes found between railroad tracks. Eggs (4) buff, spotted.
I thought I had done the right thing,
had arrived,
choosing a spot not by the water
(for those are rare enough)
but certainly one flattered by a wide expanse,
surrounded by neatly manicured greens,
and graced with carefully tended marshes;
buttercups and bullrushes blazing in
well-appointed profusion.
Columbine just beyond.
It was there, on that green course,
I made my place, far from those high
wild grasses razored by the wind
(assuredly not my concern, or so I thought!)
and at least I was not one of
those foolish pairs nesting between
hot iron rails.
Yes, mine was a choice that seemed
beyond reasonable,
arguably indulgent even,
given the surroundings, suggesting
sobriety, success, safety, and,
after all, the only point was
that I should bring the eggs to hatching,
my mate’s contributions notwithstanding.
Mind you, I do not blame him.
The protection he might have afforded
would have been, in the end,
as useless as my own.
True, I was the one who sat the countless
hours, alert to every movement, and
it was I who feigned injury as distraction,
dragging my full plumage
so piteously behind, and
shrieking a call that was
at once outraged, and imploring.
I am told it is absurd for me to have engaged
in this mock sacrifice, and history
does bear this out.
Yet I survive, and will move on, leaving
the shattered shells behind.
There is nowhere else I can envision.
If this was not enough, what would be?
I know something must be different,
but I cannot imagine what.
* * * *
It may be that the mistake is in my choice
of refuge. These die-cut tracts and flats of land
a deception more successful than my own. It
may be that refuge is a place
I cannot create alone.
In the meantime I feel my breast grow
heavy with this next brood.
I search among wild grasses, and look
beyond the edge of field, the lie
of land no seduction now.
Still, we must proceed in each endeavour
with great conviction. Perhaps nearer the water,
I wonder; perhaps next season.