Birds

 Birds

Something stirs the peacocks
as I sit here in the dark,
their cries echo
such a primitive sound.

I remember the first time that you laughed
like you had a feather tickling it out
from deep inside your belly.

You laid on the floor next to me
chewing on your fingers
your laughter filled the room.
What did your four week old eyes find so funny?

And I remember your first fledgling steps
taken on slippery, yellow tiles.
The very next day, you were racing the wily coyote.

Born ravenous,
like a chick that’s just pecked its way out of the shell,
I could not feed you fast enough.

Your hunger never decreased
eagle eyes swallow up everything in sight.
You gulp life
the way a pelican chokes down fish
without taking time to taste it.

And sometimes when I look at you now,
I see a young peacock
preening and flaunting your tail feathers at the world
and yet, so overbalanced
you can‘t fly.

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I wrote this for my son, Tate, when he was 18. On April 21 he turns 29. He is still learning how to fly.

Tate always had an affinity for birds. We used to live next to a state park. He would bring me peacock feathers he found in the park, and baby sparrows or starlings that fell from their nests. He cried for chicks he found too late, and for eggs that were broken by older boys for fun. His heart is a mourning dove.

He was recently awarded full custody of his 4 year old daughter, Presleigh. (you read a poem about her seeing the beauty in rocks). 

I am so proud of him. He is such a good father, even though, I know at times he is completely overwhelmed, exhausted, and afraid of raising a daughter by himself.