Poetry Sunday: The Birds of America by Billy Collins

Over the years, as I have consulted my various field guides to try to identify some new bird, I have pondered what the life of a birder would be without those wonderful guides. What a debt we owe to those artist/conservationists who were able to bring those lifelike illustrations - and in many of the more recent guides, pictures - to us so that even if we don't hold the bird, either dead or alive, in our hands, we can key in on specific field marks and know the name of the bird that we are viewing. 

And I think particularly of John J. Audubon and his passion for the birds of America and his determination to capture them in his art so that others could see them as he did. Billy Collins thinks about that, too.  

The Birds of America

by Billy Collins

Early this morning
in a rumpled bed,
listening to birdsong
through the propped-open windows,

I saw on the ceiling
the figure of John J. Audubon
kneeling before
the pliant body of an expired duck.

I could see its slender, limp neck, 
rich chestnut crown,
and soft grey throat,
and bright red bill,

even the strange pink legs.
And when I closed my eyes again
I could hear him whisper 
in his hybrid Creole accent

I have taken your life
so that some night a man
might open a book
and run his hand over your feathers,

so that he could come close enough
to study your pale brown flecks,
your white chin patch,
and the electric green of your neck,

so that he might approach
without frightening you into the sky,
and wonder how strange
to the earth he has become,

so that he might see by his lamp light
the glistening in your eye
then take to the air
and fly alongside you.