In Praise of Furtive Beings

The cow meadow grows more melodious
Ahead of getting quieter—the geese

Have left for further north, and the songs
Have gotten more diverse—seven kinds

I’ve been able to distinguish, although
I’ve only spotted and recognized three

Or four species—bluebirds, finches, wrens,
A meadowlark—and that lark’s gone again.

Small birds are furtive beings, after all,
Which is why humans enjoy spotting them,

Even the gentlest humans being observant
As all things evolved for stalking should be.

Our threats are more indirect, now, anyway,
At least versus hawks. Increase of cats,

Decrease of habitat. Increase of panes.
Decrease of open plains. That sort of thing.

Our threats to each other, now, those stay
As explicit as we can make them. We hate

How helpless we are, how we are the only
Help we have, have to have, and we only

Sometimes will help only someone or other.
Most of us even hate saying “we,” unless

We want to mean, explicitly, “not them.” We
Are many frightened teams of angry beings.

Maybe it would be better to live and die
Chasing insects, singing without thinking

So much about whatever the rest of us
Might do to us next. Maybe, but we can’t be

Living life so furtively—wait by the wayside
With me, by the singing meadow in spring.

We will be spotted, eventually. We will.
We will earn hard stares, soft pleasantries.

We can listen to the cows shake their bells.
We can hide in grasses humming with bees.

We can try to keep from hearing the news.
We can move to higher country. We can

Return to known houses down in the valley,
If we have mortgages, leases, permissions.

But sooner or later, we will be told to leave,
If we’re seeming out of place and behaving

Too strangely, too quietly, too furtively.
Who trusts furtive human beings? Sing.