Were they coots, those dark birds with flashy
white bills, swimming together in circles
on winter waves? Jagged surface of
the city reservoir. It would snow soon,
we walked fast, night was spreading its cloak,
the western skyline sparkled its broken glass,
and the birds in their tuxedos tightened their rings
so the water rippled glossily
out around them, catching glints.
And wouldn’t freeze. A miracle how
a family survives: come spring, coots lay
too many eggs, too many hatchlings crowd
the nest, begging for bugs and weeds the parents bring.
Irritable parents: after three days
they tousle the chicks, the weaker ones
starve. What kind of
mother, I ask, knowing all too well.
Coots cluck, screech, cackle, squawk. For now,
they keep swimming in circles. That’s one way
to show you belong. A hard, featherless
shield covers their foreheads, connects their
eyes with a scarlet dot. If you have one idea,
guard it. Only
the merciless live.