Assisted Migration (Portland Review, Vol 66, 2020)

Authors: Rob Jackson

Assisted Migration

She first saw them land

as she cut wheat straw,

wings iridescent, sickle bills red as jasper.

They gathered straw, too,

necks twining like vines,

pairs clacking and grunting

in proffered courtship.

On days of observance

she spurned rest and followed

the V of ibis flight

to cliffs where they nested.

Climbing came with time

as she stemmed her way

to ledges washed in white.

She watched pairs preen,

saw new eggs turn

from light blue to flecked brown,

one end stretched

to twirl like clock-hands when bumped

and not roll to the rocks splashed below.

Whispers broke camp

as they prepared to leave.

She sat cross-legged on packed ground,

spinning fertile talismans

plucked from the rock face.

"Sacred," her elders chided, "rare as lapis,"

shaking their axes to fate.

When morning came,

grain and dates bagged,

possessions packed and wrinkled,

she placed the orb of an egg

under each arm—bone into socket—

to brood during passage.

They turned east from the cliffs

and she raised neither voice

nor arms as she walked,

incubating dreams of flight.