Featured Image Credit: Western Scrub-Jay, photo by Mary Christine Kane.
When we pulled off Highway 1, you were there, perched on a wooden post, above the strung barbed wire. Something about your puffy body made you seem exotic, not like the birds of home. I quieted, hoping you’d stay. But you were not of a shy Midwestern bent.
You pointed your beak to the east, then the west, like a model in a fashion show, showing off your strong thin legs, your tufts of blue and white. Then you looked straight at me.
What was your question? I can think of so many things you might want to know. For instance, why all the metal? The restraint? Where is gracefulness? I replied in coos, called you birdie.
My friend reminded me that the window was open, others could hear. He called you ‘a scavenger’, as if that made you a bad birdie. I said goodbye with just my wide brown eyes.
He put the car in gear and we flew away in our stub-nosed rental. I missed you instantly—wanting to hold you in my palm and pray.
Mary Christine Kane lives in St. Paul, Minnesota where she earned an MFA from Hamline University in 2012. Her work has been appeared in numerous publications including Burner Magazine, OVS Magazine, Sleet, the Vermillion Literary Project magazine and is forthcoming in and Right Here, Right Now, The Buffalo Anthology.
