Losing the Rainbow Sheen of the Bronzewing’swings
It’s going, the sheen. Reconstructed from memory and comparison with birds in sunshowers, prismatic reflection cast over another bird, half a world away, a bird more familiar with heat. Déraciné as irrelevant as species to particularities of range, the no-migratory life led by a bronzewing whose sheen rubbed off, whose rainbow was anything but Romantic, who rebuffed the atomic art movement. Idiot politicians who conflate uranium with flight, with the light we read by. A sudden flap of wings withdraws the pigeon, the bronzewing, bronze-age echo or ricochet, plates of a naturalist’s book resonating from museum all the way to a poet’s infusion, bird in the garden, the here without pinions to grip light where air is a different pressure.