Judy and Clark 
A poem by Kevin Shyne

Judy and Clark 

A hummingbird
lured by sugar water
flew into a trap, soft-sided
made of mesh, 
a scarlet box
hanging from a line
like a mid-air lobster pot. 

A gentle hand transferred the bird
to a drawstring cotton bag
passed to an even gentler hand,
Verne’s, the master bander,
who with pressure
of a thumb and middle finger.
restrained the wings
while pliers in his other hand
looped a numbered
band around a tiny leg.
The business done, 
Verne placed the bird,
immobile, overcome, 
into the hollow of my
my grandson’s hand.

Clark called her Judy,
as if they’d met before.
Time seemed to stop
until, with another bird to band,
Verne tapped the underside
of Clark’s immobile hand.

Wings a-blur
the path of Judy’s flight
would trace a skyway of chiffon.
We watched her,
wheeling out of sight
but only Clark could tell
when she was really gone.

About the Author:

Ten years ago, Kevin Shyne moved with his wife Debi from the Chicago suburbs to Princeton, a rural community in North Central, Illinois. Kevin’s poetry explores turning points in the lives of families and friends, as well as the healing power of nature. His poems have been published in Third Wednesday, After Hours, The Lyric, The Road Not Taken and Clementine Unbound. A collection of his poems, The Faith of Fragile Things, was published last year by Kelsay Books.

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