"Killdeer" by Robert Wilson
Two killdeer nest on the river stones circling a rusty storm drain. She flattens her wings and
head as I walk by as if she were ashamed of living in poverty at the bottom of a hill. Her mate
comes close and flashes his orange tail feathers, then rows away, a broken oar hanging over the
gunnel of his body, tempting me to follow. Both birds wear black collars above their tan and
white bodies, and from the summer solstice until Ashura take turns nesting or pretending at
broken bones. Somewhere from the trail that lifts to the summit I hear a voice say, “I can’t love
you the way you need to be loved.” The words drop clearly in my direction like gravity’s ashes
telling me I am inadequate and at fault for being alone.
In four weeks, four eggs will awaken and stones will appear to shed their skins. When the chicks hatch, the parents remove the shells far from the birthing site. Killdeer are named after their two note trill, a treaty signed with deceit to keep their little ones safe. Lavender, which is a spring bloom, grows wild along the trail that lifts to the summit of the hill near the nest. Each afternoon I like to walk to the top and break open fallow ends, surprised each time that I can still smell purple even while I am out of breath.
Robert Wilson is a writer whose poems have most recently appeared in Welter and SoFLoPoJo. His poem Dolphin Tour was nominated for Best of the Net in 2023 and his poem Spring Tide was the 2024 winner of the Water to Words contest sponsored by the Seneca (New York) Park Zoo Society. He lives beside the ocean in Cape Haze, Florida.
