I do it to say the names—
Plain-capped Starthroat, Black-shouldered Kite,
Black-crowned Night-Heron, Olive-sided Flycatcher.
Some names are a philosophical conundrum, Great Knot,
others an insult, Masked Booby.
In woods silent at dawn or knee-deep in a quiet marsh,
it’s hard not to imagine thunderous rock bands—
Black Rail, California Thrasher.
Wading through golden, feathery prairie grass
or perched like a hawk on a cliff
high above the roiling sea with my binoculars,
childhood nicknames float back to me—
Surfbird and Pewee. At twilight
sparrows and martins return to the white
birdhouses that punctuate my backyard.
The pink sky quitted and undisturbed
except for a pair of darting, hungry bats,
there is nothing for me to do but persist.
From the canvas bag hanging from my shoulder,
I take out my checklist and add a few names of my own—
Insomniac Grouse, One-eyed Loon, Whiskey-drunk Warbler,
Bedlam-bitter Bluebird, Crazy Old Coot.
—
Richard Jones is the author of many books of poems, most recently Passport (Green Linden Press, 2025). He is also the editor of the literary journal Poetry East and has curated its many anthologies, including The Last Believer in Words, Paris, Bliss, and Origins.
