Daphne Major, Galapagos

 

“These birds are the most singular of any in the Galapagos.”

                                                                   Charles Darwin.

 

Volcanic up swell,

tick mark,

tiny dot in the middle

of a blue map.

 

Stationary ship,

belly of the earth

like a backstroke swimmer

in a blue-black sea,

 

where erratic rains run away

while a Cactus Finch (Scandens) has gone

black to mate, so black that shadows cast

 

blushes back.  So black,

more silhouette

than a black beaked bird

 

Daphne,

on your barred black belly,

this fine breath’d bird, this

 

penumbra of feathers and flight;

demonstrating divergence and drift,

so proud he sings aloud

 

the song of the Ground Finch (Fortis)

O befuddled bird

bereft an opera coach,

 

sans score  of Scandens,  the bird song

bindery gone  bankrupt,  loose leaf

scores littered, learning a  neighbor’s

second hand sheet music.

 

Amid the volcanic dreams

of Finches, and bird shaped voids, 

singing atop cacti, amid these small

dark commas  set against  a bluer

than blue sky,  he sings the wrong song

 

but its been a good year  and she comes,

the star crossed lover, Lady Fortis.

 

And before the rains return, and they will return,

                  a small clutch of stars.

 

And when the rains return, they will return

                     with long lost letters from London.

 

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