2 Blinds & a Bittern by Michele Glazer

Among bitterns one is blind.
Among reeds, bittern is the middle swayer.
In the blind I am all eyes.
To the eye on the other side I am
abstract, an eye, too, and green
but nothing
to beat your wings about.

The blind offered itself as a way to see
deeper into what out there
kept at abeyance, us.
Still, when we were happy we forgot ourselves . . . . . . something like that.
Who watches for what moves
and what sits
still among the rushes?
And where the branch
meets the bird.
I didn’t say I was interested in the birds, particularly,
I just said I couldn’t find them.

In the blind we are all eyes and I
am the middle swayer.
In the blind we pull birds out of the sky with other birds
we work like puppets
into the net between the firs.
This blind runs Cooper’s hawks—
The blind with the rain gutter and the burlap-covered boards.
There is concern about the bird whose tail lacks rigidity.
The lure-birds ride pulleys—pigeon, dove, English sparrow.
They wear leather vests and precious little else.

Someone bolts for the caught hawk, checks it for crop, for molt, for parasites,
the wing pit for fat. Opens the hatch.

It’s easy to love a thing against the sky but you can’t just look at one thing and say,
"oh, it’s a redtail."                                It has to all add up.