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.