BIRDING WITH MY BUDDIES (for Allen Lewis)

         Guajataca State Forest, Puerto Rico

---

"I think that we don't actually perceive things that we cannot name....For
people who know birdsong, a quiet chirp will cut through loud background,
arouse attention, and cancel out human conversation...You can't savor things
that you don't perceive, and unless you have a way to differentiate, names,
many things go unperceived." --Allen Lewis

---

We meet before dawn
to pay homage to song ...

Light sweatshirts and caps, armed
        with binoculars and boots, waist packs on
        bottles of water at the ready
single file, a measured walk ...
        a steady shuffle up the trail ...
                among the incense of the trees
We're ready ... for the birds.

On the north coast of Puerto Rico,
the lesser of the Greater Antilles,
        island on the edge
                of the Caribbean Plate,
        surrounded by wind and wave
        rock washed in the stream
forest sitting on a shelf
perched on a flyway ...

        screeching and chirping
        twittering and fluttering
        whistling and warbling
        moaning in the morning

Walking the circumference of limestone sinkholes
shrouded by vines, trees dripping wet in the dawn:
red tulipan, orange-blossomed bucaré
        (bucayo gigante, "mountain immortal")
                    far below in the gap
the swaying yagrumo mesmerizes the mind

        green silver green silver
        silver green silver green

lizards under the undergrowth;
        pointed rocks in the dirt
        smack in the trail;
just off the path dead leaves
        mulch for the seeds

rain advances
        in steps
                over the trees

an invariable hum of crickets and frogs
throated sounds         breathing easy
this being a forest; this forest a being
easy breathing         whispering in wetness

        green silver green silver
        silver green silver green

Mostly listening, hardly speaking
standing around, feeding our ears . . .
noise evolves into unambiguous sound,
a nebulous look becomes seeing.
Dawn marches toward light.

We wind up the trail toward the tower,
a horizon of resonant sight.

"I heard the flutter."
        "Where?" "Over there ... "
                "There, there it goes ... there!"

Spotting that flash ...
an emerald throat ... those lemon stripes ...
the crimson tint on a feathery breast.

hearing the sounds
noting that color
        and this hue
hearing the birds
checking their beaks
observing their perch
studying the books
perusing the pix
noting the nests
naming the names

Tall trees sway in the air
wind weaves the hills

        green silver green silver
        silver green silver green

Encompassed by time
we stand at the top
of the tower's square box.
Whirling birds use this cage to contain us.

We feel the beginning of day,
the breaking of light.

Now, knowing our place,
knowing now who lives here --
        who's native to here
        and who's an invader --

we know         who belongs ...
                       who belongs?

        we do do we we do
        do we we do do we

looking for flight
mist in the sinkholes

                                                                        © Anthony Hunt (c. Oct. 2000)

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