Porch Bird
by Scott Shaffer

Her husband’s present to her isn’t wrapped in festive paper.
No, it’s sandwiched between crumpled, timeworn newspapers,

and slipped into a weary cardboard box. Mmmmm … what “treasure” here?
Peeling back dated papers, she thrills to see what she thought lost forever–

a wooden “porch bird,” like Victorian house-owners hung from surround-verandas.
It sports a dusty sweater over faded, greyish-white duds. This old bird

somehow lifts your spirit, as if it’s not only soaring, but you’re alongside
in majestic flight. About a foot long, from rust-colored beak to tail feathers,

it bends forward gently, like a supersonic jet. Its wings wave gracefully
with the wind; ride gusts like a skier over moguls; rise into a victorious “V.”

Its mysterious, grey left eye focuses on a faraway landscape–for prey, or a mate?
How did it lose its right eye? Delighted beyond words, her mind flies

back to the auction, months ago: Bidding stands at $44; she’s smitten;
she pictures hanging it in the space she knocked out in the wall

between the family room and dining area. But should she bid higher
for a carved bird that needs a bath?! The auctioneer bangs down his gavel,

her heart sinks, her bird migrates for good. For days afterward, the absent avian
pops up in her mind. The vacant spot of the former wall cries a lonely lament.

Visit the winner’s antique shop? No time to wander after a woodcarving–
even if it makes her feel like she’s cruising on the wings of the wind.

Now, thanks to her husband, “her bird” has landed safely in her home …
and is nesting in her soul.



 

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