by James Brush
They drove down from some mega church in Kansas with signs reading, “God hates grackles,” and “Grackles spread disease & crap on everything.” One little girl with blond pigtails tied with blue ribbons carried a sign saying, “No more icky turds.” They marched up and down the street outside the capitol chanting verses from Leviticus about unclean birds, occasionally stopping to extol the virtues of godly American fried chicken and turkey club sandwiches. From their trees, the grackles watched with little interest. They heard the repetitive nuk-nuk-nuk of the chanters and wondered at the rusty-hinge noises they made on the street below but mostly, they preened their shiny purple feathers and craned their necks toward the open sky above.
This went on for most of the afternoon and as the heat increased, the protesters grew more desperate, more willing to go beyond the veil of free speech. One man cast a stone. There was a moment’s pause as the world waited for the grackles to craft a response. Seconds grew to minutes, and the protesters glanced at one another, nervous, waiting. Suddenly all the grackles exploded skyward in a storm of wings and wild hallelujahs. The protesters watched with squinted eyes as the birds flew ever higher, each beat of their dark wings carrying them deeper into the sky and closer to God than anyone on the street below could imagine.
Blinded by the summer sky into which the grackles had disappeared, the protesters fumbled for their signs, packed them back on the bus, cursing the ugly grackles for their filthy ways and for not being blue birds or cardinals. Resentful and secretly wishing they too had wings and beautiful iridescent plumage, they drove back north, never once leaving the ground.
Trembling
wings
tremble
cold front
falls gray from
northern skies
dry fields ripple—
summer’s grass
dead and brown
hides nothing
not even shadows
from the vulture
spiraling lower
waiting
waiting
for something
to freeze
Say Grackle
Purple iridescence,
a hard-edged thrill to say.
How can a person not love
the chance to repeat the word:
grackle?
I’ll never understand
why everyone hates grackles.
(But then I don’t have
thousands living in my trees.)
Outside my window,
a fledgling takes food:
an adult teaches
the young bird how to live.
I’ll lose a whole day
watching, wishing them well.
Grackle,
grackle, grackle.
Lines Discovered in an Aging Ornithologist’s Field Journal
When the end comes, don’t
plant me in the ground, trapped
in just one piece of earth.
Why not leave me by
the highway for the vultures
and maybe for the crows
who will take my unseeing eyes.
Then, at last, I could soar,
finally fly on dusky wings
outstretched,
buried in the sky.
Optimist
Whisper:
a vulture’s wings—
I keep going
Notes
About the birds in this book: Vultures are large carrion-eating birds. The turkey vulture (Cathartes aura) and black vulture (Coragyps atratus) are native to the Americas and common in parts of the United States. True grackles are a blackbird-like species also native to the Americas. The common grackle (Quiscalus quiscula) and great-tailed grackle (Quiscalus mexicanus) are those most frequently seen in the US.
“Quiscalus Mexicanus”: The great-tailed grackle is in the midst of a century-long range expansion into the western U.S.
“Good Authority”: Black vultures have been observed working together to kill small animals. Turkey vultures can locate carcasses by smell. Black vultures often follow turkey vultures to food.
“Creed for Cathartes Aura”: Vultures defecate on their own feet, possibly to stay cool in the summertime.
All illustrations are by the author
Acknowledgements
Thanks to the editors of the following journals for first publishing some of these poems:
Bolts of Silk: “My Tourist Yard” and “Good Authority”
Thirteen Myna Birds: “God Hates Grackles,” “Lines Discovered in an Aging Ornithologist's Field Journal,” and “Circling Vultures”
a handful of stones: “grackles spill across the sky”
Four and Twenty: “Optimist”
tinywords: “on a bed of leaves”
Houston Literary Review: “Greyhound Joey vs. the Grackle”
Pay Attention: A River of Stones Anthology: “pale sky”
Nothing. No One. Nowhere: “The Grackle Tree”
qarrtsiluni: “While Sitting in Church” (Videopoem)
Curio Poetry: “Winter Solstice” and “In the Time of the Automobile”
Many of these poems first appeared on one or the other of my blogs, Coyote Mercury and a gnarled oak, so my thanks to those readers who left kind and encouraging comments, particularly Deb Scott and Rachel Brush who gave invaluable feedback on the manuscript.
About the Author
James Brush is a high school English teacher. He published his first novel, A Place Without a Postcard, in 2003. His poems have appeared in various journals online and in print, and he keeps a full list of publications at his blog Coyote Mercury. He really does like vultures and grackles, which is lucky since he lives in central Texas.
You can find James online at any of the following places:
Coyote Mercury (his personal blog)
a gnarled oak (his mirco-poetry blog)
Twitter
Table of Contents
Birds Nobody Loves
Table of Contents
While Sitting in Church
Confession
Patton’s Army
Quiscalus Mexicanus
On March 1st
Good Authority
Grackle Ghazal
Circling Vultures
The Grackle Tree
Chasing Westward
Winter Solstice
Summer Solstice
Greyhound Joey vs. the Grackle
An Avicentric Model
Creed for Cathartes Aura
In the Time of the Automobile
A Cackle of Grackles
A Committee of Vultures
My Tourist Yard
God Hates Grackles
Trembling
Say Grackle
Lines Discovered in an Aging Ornithologist’s Field Journal
Optimist
Notes
Acknowledgements
About the Author
