I was marveling at these open western skies all the way, including those produced by fierce rainstorms after Pocatello. Because we were in the car, I didn't hear any birds, but I saw some. And I should be in Emmet County, Michigan in time for the last three burdwalks of the spring season. Thus tonight's bird-in-a-poem which I've been saving for as I get closer.
How You Know
Everyone first hears the news as a child,
surrounded by money-changers and pharisees;
amid all the twittering, one flash of sound
escapes along a creek---some fanatic among
the warblers broken loose like a missionary
sent out to the hinterland, and though the doors
that open along the creek stay closed for the cold,
and the gray people in their habitats don't look out,
you---a homeless walker stabbed by that bird cry---
stop mid-stride because out of a thicket
that little tongue turns history loose again, and holy
days asleep in the calendar wake up and chime.
William Stafford, from Even in Quiet Places, Confluence Press, page 57.
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