50th Birthday

The morning half a century lifted the blinds

I woke up squinting at the winter sun.

Eyes adjusted to light slower than usual, startled

by the radiance of cardinals erupting from wintergreen. 

You brought chocolate crêpes on a tray, but I had no plan to change habits. 

How swift is the common swift? I asked, so you went scrambling for undisputed facts. 

In mating flight, known as ‘screaming party,’ swifts reach 111 kph,

then, high enough for a safe glide down, they recharge with a nap.  

The ones we saw funnel down the neighbor’s chimney at dusk 

turned out to be small-footed bats. Slow down, you might have meant

to wish me. After coffee and chocolate, I return to the backyard 

to see if the ants have finished devouring the baby bat.

Without glasses, the tedium’s a tad terrifying: their morsels invisible, 

the marching too civil. With glasses, the burden augments and I wonder 

if now that I’m 50 I should discontinue the manufacture of hard feelings. 

The swift with the most southerly breeding range winters in the most northerly quarters,

you read aloud, a sign—I take it—I should push forth on sheer hunger, on the wing.