The Flicker
by Nancy Takacs
As I bend
for cut ribbons
or stand peeling
an eggplant
each December
I catch the tip
of his gray wing
through my glass
door, then his red
and yellow back.
I know then
who he is.
He's already
landed when
I see him, his body
bigger than a crow's
though more slender
and coming to a dull point.
Now I'm used
to seeing him:
two weeks
near my apple tree,
he worries it for some
living thing
to make it
through the day on.
I could almost love
this flicker, his
blunt grace, how
I can't find his edge,
the all-day tapping
I can't stand to hear.
As I put
a pitcher away
one day
during these
white skies
this
cold-inversion
that won't quite
lift, I catch him
flying.
–
from Juniper