Samuel Coe reading ‘Is There Such a Thing as a Native Bird?’
Is there such a thing as a native bird?
by Samuel Coe
Is there such a thing as a native bird?
Those original fair weather friends of
Early morning song, emigrants of winter,
Their leaving returning the silence of our own thoughts.
Such nomadicness is perhaps healthier,
Allowing us to alight on the mouths of
Other rivers and line up, beads on the string
Of distant communication. Going to where the
Going is good but then again there is sadness
In being so rootless. The trees we called home
May fall in the interim, the geography change
While we weren’t there to appreciate it, to
Preserve its passing in memory, to return to
Those old scrolls whose seasons we
Wait for the year round, the prophecy
Of winter in summer, the spirit of autumn
In spring, to adapt rather than flee to where,
Trapped in the possibilities of change,
In climates that we find so different to ours,
Every lit match is a prayer to God for rain.
But then again, bamboo can take root and
Thrive in foreign soils if cultivated and cared for,
Where birds alien to it flit within, which
Perhaps answers my initial question.