MIST NET
The painted bunting cannot escape
the mesh. Wings and head tangled,
feet twisted in black net. It rests in the net,
begins to flutter at the bander’s approach.
Quietly, she encloses its wings in her hand.
Pulling the net from its feet, wings, head,
it flaps and pecks at her fingers, the angle
of the sun that drives it to flight fading for the day.
She places the rainbow bird in a white bag
Painted buntings have taken this route
since time has been measured. Only Archaeopteyx
can reveal if flight grew from a glide to another tree,
a hop to a branch. Its ancestors have seen the growth
and retreat of great ice, birds follow the same path
despite clear-cut forests and barrier islands
swept clean by Katrina. The bander
places a silver bracelet on its leg, measures
wing, tail, and bill. It rests for a moment
in the bander’s hand
this strange perch.
