The Ornithologist to His Love
by Stewart Conn
I cannot contemplate your taking ill, say,
any more than I can the prospect of no
dawn, no morning patter of fine rain
against the pane, no rich skies at sundown.
As for your absence, no remote
comparison, even when imagining
those hundreds of little auks driven
from their place on the ice–pack, their
twittering trills silenced as they are caught
in long–handled nets and crammed
into airtight seal–skins then left
fermenting for months, before being eaten.