Killdeer
Two killdeer nest on the river stones circling a rusty storm drain. She flattens her wings and head as I walk by as if she were ashamed of living in poverty at the bottom of a hill. Her mate comes close and flashes his orange tail feathers, then rows away, a broken oar hanging over the gunnel of his body, tempting me to follow. Both birds wear black collars above their tan and white bodies, and from the summer solstice until Ashura take turns nesting or pretending at broken bones. Somewhere from the trail that lifts to the summit I hear a voice say, “I can’t love you the way you need to be loved.” The words drop clearly in my direction like gravity’s ashes telling me I am inadequate and at fault for being alone.
In four weeks, four eggs will awaken and stones will appear to shed their skins. When the chicks hatch, the parents remove the shells far from the birthing site. Killdeer are named after their two note trill, a treaty signed with deceit to keep their little ones safe. Lavender, which is a spring bloom, grows wild along the trail that lifts to the summit of the hill near the nest. Each afternoon I like to walk to the top and break open fallow ends, surprised each time that I can still smell purple even while I am out of breath.
Robert Wilson‘s poems have most recently appeared in Welter and SoFloPoJo, and his third chapbook, Too Much of Water, was released by Bottlecap Press last year. He lives beside the ocean in Cape Haze, Florida.