The Bird Artist

You only carried two booksthe Art of Birdwatching and the Bible.
You went on expeditions
in the hills of Transylvania-
Baile Herculane.
Binoculars in your hands,
expecting birdsong
in your beautiful ears;
you waited in the tall, wet grass, lying
on your belly.

The sparrow’s bifurcated
tails marooned the air,
bilingual verses paraded my pages,
songs of European Goldfinches,
Eurasian Jays, kissed
my ears through clouds.

How you’ve hollowed my heart, dad.
I yearn to bring you back with your accordion,
now resting on the divan.
I envision how you park your green bike
in our backyard, then you open the door
to our house, and stroll right
into my daydream.

Percussion of the earth,
a heartbeat worthy of tales,
birds upon birds flying drunk.
You felt like being tucked inside
the valley, alone.
Eyes alert, ears pricked, you recorded their
songs, notes on yellowing music paper,
soared inside your heart.

I thought you’d never die.

Wings perched on the angel statue,
you’ve left without a trace,
a shadow crumbling.
The Bluejay song is tempered by chewing
gray squirrels.

Red Robins parade by my window.
I swear, I do not
understand their song,
singing away in this foreign land.