Faithful.

Chatham, Chestnut-collared Longspur, undated

The to be a tiny bird

upon a tiny limb, maybe

a bridled titmouse

standing on its spidery feet,

not a big guy who falls

with a resounding thump

and bruises sidewalks and pastures,

sinks in river mud to the waist.

If my feet were spears I would have descended

to a tumultuous underground river that are

everywhere, earth-borne by the black current.

When young I thought I’d die in my thirties

like so many of my favorite poets.

At seventy-five I see this hasn’t happened.

Still, I am faithful to my poems and birds.
Birds are poems I haven’t caught yet.

Jim Harrison

CONNECT