Bird-banding at Camp

​

The counselors had no bands


that fit a hummingbird,


but should one get

caught in the mist net,


you rattled it between cupped hands 
until it lay in your palm


(unhurt, we were assured)


with a quiet that, though its heartbeat whirred,

looked like calm.

 

Then everyone who might


admired its smallness, red

enamel throat,


wings a green suitcoat,


but suddenly it took flight

slid steeply up a ramp of air


full-powered, pivoted

in the leaves to a hopeful gap and sped

out of there.

​

God! to feel


my head clear


for good, to recognize


the windy or waiting skies

are real,


to get out of here.