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The Nesting Ground
Piping sharp as a reed, The small bird stood its ground Twenty feet from ours. From the shore, another answered (The piercing double note Meant killdeer and killdeer) And skimmed over the sand, Over the sparse grass, Lit, then scurried away, Flopping, crooking its wing To flash a jagged streak And the amber of its back. When the first bird moved a foot And struck out at the air, Two chicks leaped after it, Their plain heads clear as day. We walked straight to the spot, Needing to stir what we love, Knelt down and found nothing, Not even when we stared Each checkered, pebbly stalk Into its own semblance. We flattened disbelief With the four palms of our hands. But the grown birds broke themselves, Crippled their cries and wings So near us, we stood up To follow their sacrifice That tempts the nails of creatures Who, needing flight, forget Whatever they might have caught By standing still instead. We kept on walking, led By pretended injuries, Till we were far away, Then turned, as the birds turned To sail back to the source Where we had touched our knees, And saw through our strongest glass The young spring out of cover, Piping one death was over.