Bird’s Bridge

New England Review - - Cultural History - Ela Har­ri­son

Our north­ern spring’s a sud­den race of green and birds ar­rive, mi­grat­ing from the south. What’s con­stant is the shift. I live be­tween.

Two spruces frame the path. Their new tips gleam and point new ferns and net­tles on the ground. This north­ern spring’s a sud­den race of green.

A yel­low war­bler’s there; it seems to me that with such stubby wings, his com­ing flouts the laws of grav­ity. I pass be­tween

the spruces, and he flits in front of me graz­ing my chest with gold across my path, then set­tles, rest­ing, yel­low against the green.

And now I rec­og­nize, no air’s pris­tine— birds’ bridges line its lengths, checker its breadth. What’s con­stant is the shift. I live be­tween

con­stant near misses, brushes with the un­seen; walk sea­sons; change; all in­ter­sect­ing routes. Our north­ern spring’s a sud­den race of green. What’s con­stant is the shift. I live be­tween.

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