Three Fields

by Lola Haskins

Confettis of tiny dark birds rise and fall like swells.

Conclaves of ibises so white they glow stab at

the grass. In the distance, three or four grey 

blurs may be cranes or mirages of cranes or 

simply, because I want them so much, dreams.

A row of Brahmas the colors of evening gloves,

ivory and pearl and taupe, feeds at a trough.

Their tender ears flap softly. From the side, 

their humps are mountains on a horizon 

that keeps receding no matter how long

I trek. In the next field, burly Anguses 

mill around looking powerful, like 

men bulked-up from the gym, but 

also, like those men, a little absurd.

That the blurs in the final field 

have disappeared by now 

makes no never mind, because 

when the cranes are leaving I feel 

their flutter and calm in my chest 

as they settle into their vees 

and like compass needles point 

north. When the last is gone

I am left alone except for the stalker, 

that may at any moment sudden 

its long neck towards the shallows

and pierce me as I swim. 

Because—and I learned it young—

it doesn’t matter how soulfully 

I praise the cranes nor how often  

their tall and awkward beauty 

visits me at night, the odds

reset with each year’s toss. 

Fifty- fifty they come back. 

Fifty- fifty, they never will.