On Single-Parent Migrants
Canadians by the millions, as most everybody knows,
slowly migrate southward every winter, back and forth,
Keen to nest in milder climes from fall to early spring
when sources for their sustenance, because of snows up north,
Fade to where they all but starve, and predators more desperate
often steal the lives of those who can’t, or do not, leave;
But those who’ve lost their lifetime mates for what is deemed a sport—
the victims downed by shotgun shells—are those for whom I grieve!
I remember clearly when the first gigantic V hypnotized me,
winging through the clouds when I was five.
Uncle Marty picked me up and, pointing toward the sky, said,
“Every year around this time, son, flocks of geese arrive
“To once again remind us of the colder weather looming.
Those, that is, who make it past the hidden hunters’ sloughs.
And then again return in spring to let us know that summer’s
just around the corner, and—if fortunate—in twos.”
Looking back to 5 years old, I wished he hadn’t told me!
I’d yet to see a “honker” fall, and—chilled by what he meant—
I was deeply bothered learning migrants risked the wager
of actually never getting home on every trip they spent!
Now… I accept your argument: “You down your geese for eating”—
despite they’re actually being raised on farms to fill that void.
But every time I picture one that’s gliding down—unwittingly—
beckoned by those damn deceptive decoys you’ve deployed
To lure them ever closer to the point where being killed is
I’d say, virtually guaranteed, I’ll always wonder why
anyone would rather kill these harmless handsome birds
than simply stand and quietly watch them decorate the sky!
Well, sitting in my den last week, trying to write a poem,
my thoughts were interrupted by a flock of pausing geese.
I quickly noticed two were swimming someways from the others,
each with fledglings hov’ring close. I counted six apiece.
The yet-to-freeze, two-acre pond behind our country home—
a respite used by countless wildfowl (hopefully twice a year)—
Helped me to remember why I feel the way I do
when a clearly “single-parent” with their children wandered near.
I sensed a desperation in the way this mom (or dad?)
led her frail dependents to the shoreline of the pond,
Guarding them from danger—though without her lifetime partner
’cause some cold, misguided person with a shotgun broke their bond!
Mark Stellinga is a poet and antiques dealer residing in Iowa. He has often won the annual adult-division poetry contests sponsored by the University of Iowa Writer’s Workshop, has had many pieces posted in several magazines and sites over the past 60 years, including Poem-Hunter.com, PoetrySoup.com, and Able Muse.com—where he won the 1st place prize for both ‘best poem’ of the year and ‘best book of verse.’
Mark, I suspect there are divided views on your poem. When we lived on the farm in South Dakota, I looked forward to our large extended family getting together for Thanksgiving and Christmas with a dinner table filled with venison, ducks, geese, and pheasants. Not having much money, we savored what our hunters gave us. I understand many may not appreciate this, but we often relied on wild meat to help us through the long winters. I feel for single human parents like you do, but sense this is written against guns (I took your use of “shotgun” as a metaphor for all guns). If this is the case, I do not share your sentiments.
I’ve absolutely no problem with ‘guns’ per say, Roy, and I, too, hunted for foods when I was young, but I do have a problem with dropping geese, ducks, pheasants, deer, elephants, tigers, lions, etc., etc., not to mention hooking game fish like Northern, Walleye, Marlin, etc. merely to decorate man cages and use their pelts as — ‘got ‘im in Zimbabwe’ rugs, which, IMO is far too often the case. Antler chandeliers are not one of my favorite household accessories. It’s what some people do with their gun that inspired this piece. I suspect we’re generally on the same page, and thanks for you input –
I can agree with you on wanton shootings to assuage egos.
That’s nice to know – and I thought as much – take care – -:)
Each fall we mark the shots of the beginning of the goose season, and soon after the cries of the widowed Geese. Here’s a poem about intact flocks:
Hearken, the wind-cleavers – B. canadensis
Taunting the ice-teeth – of winter in leaving
Long as the water flows – long as the snow delays
Northhome and nestsite – to flee south and skywards
Sky-high and sky-wide – bugling calm retreat.
Hearken, the wind-cleavers – B. canadensis
spring by themselves – to the slumbering northland
Crying the season – like dogs on the heels of
Calm wool-white winter – that wrapped down the earth.
Sky-wide and tree-low – more than they sing alone
Long ages song-strong – furrowing fields of sky
North-hopeful, nestwards.
– “And in this annual barter of food for light, and winter warmth for summer solitude, the whole continent receives as net profit a wild poem dropped from the murky skies upon the muds of March.” ― Aldo Leopold, A Sand County Almanac and Sketches Here and There.