The art of the birder has little to do with
Spotting beaks and wings, but instead with
Keeping hope alive and
Practicing continual surprise

It is finding new eyes in old sights and skies,
Even birds seen a hundred times before
Or, if seeing some exotic variety for the first time, to be re-birthed
In that satisfaction of finding treasure you can never cash or cage or trade

In every color, on every beating feather
To see, and guess at what the finding means—
No coincidence, surely, to look and find,
In this world where desire seems, most often, sightless
To seek and find must mean something:

Perhaps it is the hope that seeing leads to being seen;
We seek and hope that someone might find us a beautiful thing, with gallant feathers, and be just as pleased, and find revery

But at the least,
To see a bird is to defy the lie that we’ve seen everything, no matter how many times we’ve seen the bird
Is to believe there is something new under the sun and that, in fact,
Everything is wide awake in miracle, just waiting for someone to find it

Birdwatching is that most subtle art
Of staying alive

For more poetry, click here.