Isolated one winter, I took up a new hobby,
augury, inferring the divine will of the gods
from birds: secrets of flight, mysterious calls,
each species messaging a divining sign and I
wished, like Greek soothsayers, to prophesize.
In the dark, I bundled up treks to icy marshes
where Grandmother Moon ladled out Redwing
Blackbirds, scarlet-and-yellow epaulets,
the color of Indian seed corn, giving authority
to direct north blizzards of Snow Geese
before signaling arrival of quickening Spring,
winging inside gritty gizzards of Sandhill Cranes,
usually my omens, but these chosen avian envoys
often failed to materialize near my river blind,
a camouflage of muted colors on a sandy bank.
Then on Easter morn, sheltering alone,
waiting in vain to witness a dance of cranes
I quit in frustration, hearing the din of flocks
far to the hut’s blind side and in the dim
trudged aimless through the dense scrub
still absent the promise of rejuvenating green,
only to glimpse a Prairie Falcon, herald
of the sun, hurdling at a tight pitch of orioles
wheeling like Rorschach inkblots imaging
a shimmer of people with hands extended.
INSTANT NOODLES 