Six Birds, Michael Estabrook

two crows

at the side of the road pecking at something dead, bits of stringy gray flesh in the tips of their yellowed beaks: pecking, pecking, heads jabbing down striking, glass-eyes glistening in the sun

an eagle

in the forest, large and brown, drops seemingly from nowhere into nothing as we walk beneath the trees

two geese

the river slides before me, tiny smooth ripples, noiseless against the reeds and broken tree branches and thick black roots like tired snakes, still winter so no turtles or fish break the surface, only two geese standing stiff as statues, eyeing me and the quiet river too


an egret


stands in the shallows of a pond, poised, elegant, focused, his long beak snapping suddenly like a whip into the water, stabbing at a plump, brown tadpole, but misses, his beady eyes stare into the dark water, incredulous, and, if I didn’t know better, a little embarrassed about it too