Whimbrels

by Laura Klein

. . . a long obedience in the same direction . . . —Friedrich Nietzche

From the get go, two habitual waders rise—the minimum contradiction of sandpipers called, alongside their tribe, toward change. Streamlined for yonder, amid headlong proximity, hourly, they tilt their wings, drafting off one another’s drive. And wit . . . for here and there, crow-berried liquid confetti begets future take-out. Ah, migration, you muster the hollow-bones version of faith, braving the mileage of risk, the nightly encampment of want. How trusting, this God who loves birds. And how travelworn, the collapsible tents of their bodies, enfolding one beating, intrinsic need: an avian Canaan, its scent of safety beckoning all those imbued with nerve, and a knack for abandon, and heart to just pick up and go.

Laurie Klein is the author of Where the Sky Opens (Poeima/Cascade). A past winner of the Thomas Merton prize, her work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies. She lives in the Pacific Northwest.