The next time a student asks
how to become a writer, I will say:
Sit in a white room
without paper
and think of the poacher
who shot the wing off the bald eagle.
Who must have seen
he wrecked his trophy
and, disgusted,
did not offer it
a second bullet
but thrashed off deeper into the forest
wearing his expensive
forest-colored clothes.
Then think of the man from the wild bird sanctuary
who found the eagle,
sutured its ragged wingstub,
fed the awkward hopping thing
for years.
And, before it died, harnessed it
in a hang glider and took it to the mountain
so one last time
its hollow bones could float,
so one last time
its eyes could scour the forest floor from hunter’s height,
so one last time
its talons could tear the gauzy cloak of sky,
flying in the face
of God,
that one last time.
Think of the poacher, think of the birder.
Alternate,
shortening the intervals.
Don’t forget to breathe.
When you can hold both of these men
in the palm of your mind
at the same time—
Love,
come find me
and teach me.
Published in Tender Hooks (W. W. Norton, New York, 2004). Copyright © 2004 by Beth Ann Fennelly. Used with the permission of the author.