Moonlight Ornithologist Poem by Bernard Henrie

In the bird refuge my daughter
unpacks her sack lunch, bread
for the birds, her sleep blanket
and thermos of tomato soup.

The fog comes like a séance
to the birds, they droop wet,
stamp, whisper in the nash
of pippin limbs.

We have secrets too, sacred
language in the dense leaves,
capsized water frogs, reeds
and tangled earth boroughs.

We have a handful of straw,
offerings of sliced mulberry.

The absorption is something
we did not imagine. The birds
open their eyes in the dark
as leopards open a green eye
to hunt.

My daughter listens, watches
until overcome with sleep.
Later, she wakes as the birds fly.
They skim, rise, escape
on the sky's surface propelled
by will as I have watched
her skate alone on pathless ice.