The Cycle of a Spoonbill by Ryan A. Feinberg

Impossibly high above the wetland,

in a part of the sky whose currents we can't understand,

a spoonbill emerges among the sailing flock of darker feathers,

roseate visible to us only against sun-filtering cloud.

A welcomed addition in the hospitable whirlwind, there is no supremacy of the skies here, no demand for air dominance

from those in flight.

Below, a niche exists for every beak in the cypress dome, from crown to watery floor, hammock to grassy glade.

Along the gradient, a different bill fills each level:

The scythe, the spear, the sieve, the flail, the pick,

the probe, And, yes, the spoon, sweeping side to side through the gleaming slough, aerating the earth for all.

A cacophony of calls and colors as feathers cycle from air to branch to air, alighting and ascending and alighting.

The birds carry a river of water with them, as if the top of the clouds at their height is the fount that forms the fertile bed of the swamp.

This cycle goes on not by competition, but by cooperation in the cacophony, not in purity but in a pluralism of beaks.

Not red in tooth and claw, but purple in the gallinule's shining chest, oak-brown in limpkin plume, blue in the span of the heron,

white in the delicate strands of an egret's gown,

black in the outstretched wings of the snake bird.

And, yes, roseate, in the universalist sky impossibly high above the wetland, flying among diverse feathers

who live by the fruits of the aerated earth and welcome all into the whirlwind.

Ryan's Bio 

Ryan Feinberg is a longtime Orlandoan and works as a public school teacher in Orange County. He is passionate about reading and writing and enjoys exploring Florida ecology, history, politics, literature, and film.