Tuesday, May 20, 2014

Raptor by Wendy Ingersoll

By the river, a great smudge of dusky bird
abruptly separates from the oak—

a bald eagle, beating at the breeze.  I break
into a jog. Where river meets creek

he wheels, heads north on the lesser current,
alights upstream.  I slow my pace.  

Herons spill from the reeds,
cards peeling off a deck,

rasping as they cut the air.  A pair
of ospreys startle, cree, swoop.  I scurry on

past cardinals red-flagging the bank
like words refusing to be blocked —

faithful so long as we both—  I veer
to follow the creek.   That’s when I see,

high in a sycamore, the eagle’s nest—
I spot his hulk above the knitted sticks. He lifts,

flaunts north— no eagle, but a buzzard, bizarre
as in a carnival mirror, bamboozling the day

like an old pipedream.

Wendy Elizabeth Ingersoll’s book Grace Only Follows won the 2010 National Federation of Press Women Contest and was a finalist for Drake University’s 2012 Emerging Writer Prize.  Her poems have appeared in Naugatuck River Review, Passager, Caesura, Controlled Burn, and received a Pushcart Prize nomination.  She’s a retired piano teacher.

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