Lakeside, against a grieving sky
on sand its own, true color
the grackle, black as an absolute
iridescent as an unfulfilled wish
sets its pointed face toward the wind
unfolds to full span, and struts
jumps
floats up and back
settles.
Struts
jumps again
floats, and settles.
Struts, jumps, floats, again and again.
This is no search for food
no ritual to mate, no dream
in which I take animal form.
It is a bird’s delight in wings
because this grackle, which can fly
wants to fly.
—
While shaped by dramatic events, Eileen Oldag believes she is filled by subtle ones—moments that could easily escape notice, that naming such moments salutes their substance and keeps them perceptible when their power is needed, and that nature educates her in the space of observation, first to witness, then to name. She grew up on the Texas Gulf Coast and lived in the South, before moving to Boise, Idaho where she now writes.
