Birds Hear Us
Certain droppings, fallen as liquid gold
from the flights of golden eagles
or, say, from owls of doubtful wisdom,
fell on the early mountains and ran down
to the green plain between two rivers,
vanishing one drop into the other, combining
What kind of living things are these? cried all the animals.
They in their garden of intense desires
nuzzled careening droplets over Eden,
with innocent appetites licked them into awkward shapes
crying Lord, what
Now there were only two.
Name them! the Voice called golden from the garden.
Once named, the blobs took form, rose, named in their turn
the astounded animals,
ruled, loved, ate, knew exile,
survived their own deaths through their children
and turned their
anguish into named and separate songs.
Our ancestors, claim certain half-convincing books.
Up high, who knows, perhaps uneasy eagles catch those songs
and stoop more justly at the undefended lamb--perhaps--
or stupid owls at midnight listen, and grow wise.
Anthony Cam, 1970
(aka Isabella Fey)