Mostly I was happy

This morning as the sun was chasing long shadows across the world, a bird hit the window. I looked out and there was no small body crumpled to the ground, or flailing nearby, but on the window’s screen a wee bit of down fluttered. Whew, I wouldn’t have to go out. Not yet. Not that it was cold, or raining or in some other way a day I didn’t want to enter. Mostly I was happy no creature needed me. Not that a bird would; if it was injured, I would be obligated to ball up a towel, find a small box and set it into a nest until it felt better. There are cats slinking about, I couldn’t leave it on the ground.

When I was younger (7, 9, 11) I couldn’t leave my horses (Breyer models) in the window overnight. I wouldn’t let my stuffed animals sit lonely on a shelf, alone and uncovered; everyone got paired up or had a pod of friends. I feared for the cat when I knew it was snowing and blowing. And then too, if someone wasn’t home, or came home too late, I fretted. I couldn’t sleep as I imagined a life suddenly without them. Eventually this went away, these feelings as I realized (or felt) that no one else had these hanging over them. Of course, who did I talk to about it: no one. The worrying came back eventually, intensified when Issac was born – baby nightmares: a missing child, a car that can’t stop, handing the baby to someone who vanished like smoke – and these dreams persisted for a number of years. I blame the mess that pregnancy does to your mind and body. Your psyche goes into hyper alertness. I’m sure it is always such, for everyone. Ultimately it eases off (this dread, this limbo), I feel that people are safe. (Mostly safe, bearably safe?) I can harden my heart so it doesn’t require me to wander at 3AM into the darkness I can’t break. I can’t make nests for those who have flown. But I’m always ready. That never goes away.

Angels and Saints

Angels in hawk feathers
swoop along the Mad River.
You mouth the name Mad,
mad, mad until your body
vibrates like a wire.

You see hawks perched
on mile markers and fence posts
dining on field mice, fluffing
their feathers for warmth.

All along the highway they mock
your devotion.

Right before crossing into Ohio
a saint disguised as a three-legged coyote
limps onto a frozen stream. You stop
your car and then he stops, head low watching.
You mutter about walking on water
and a truck startles you, spooks the coyote.
He continues his sad journey through the cold.
Looking back once, yellow eyes meet yours,
a blessing, now you can go on.