Unprecedented spring heat wave! the Frenchman cried.
The baby bird seemed to wither, made several pathetic attempts to drink a liquid not there, then perished in the Frenchman’s cupped palm.
Necklace-throated dayhawk! the Frenchman called.
A bird with an iridescent blue neck ridge left its perch and merrily circled the room.
Catastrophic wildfires during breeding season, three years in a row! said the Frenchman.
Overcome by smoke, the dayhawk dropped to the carpet, bounced, lay still.
Allen’s hummingbird! the Frenchman said. Cerulean warbler, purple finch, royal tern, sage thrasher!
A single member of each of these species rose and hovered before us, the Frenchman’s intention being, it seemed, that my charge should admire the care with which each had been made: the slight purple arc hidden there among the gray underbelly on this one; the shift, on that one’s wings, from flaming orange to the darkest (nearly black) wine red; the jewel-like precision of the gradations on the beak of this fellow, which, if inspected closely, was seen to contain as many as nine distinct colors.
Each is a miracle, the Frenchman said. Brought about by millions of years of change. Unaware of the larger miracle of which it is a part, yet a vital link in what is to come.Lost forever.Think upon that dreadful phrase,monsieur!And then: repent. It is not difficult. I have done so myself.
He invented the engine, I explained.
Quelle horreur,mumbled the Frenchman.
Christ Almighty, said my charge.
I know you,mon frère,the Frenchman said. Iwasyou. A partial man, comically incomplete, shortsighted and greedy, living only for today and what might be wrung from it.
Go fuck yourself, my charge shouted. You don’t know a goddamned thing about it.
At the sharpness of this rebuke, a female loon (regal, red-eyed, alarmed) exploded out through the wall, giving off a glorious, coyote-like flight yodel.
Lark bunting, the Frenchman gasped, suddenly short of breath. Nashville warbler.
His strength, adversely affected by the apparent failure of this grand effort, began to wane.
Bobolink, he managed to whisper, as if, his depleted energy notwithstanding, he could not bear to omit a single imperiled species.
Defeated, he propelled himself weakly up into the air, ascending rather as a feather falls: by a series of small curves, retrograde motions, momentary mid-flight stalls.
At the ceiling he hesitated.
Weak as he was, the molecules of the plaster presented a formidable obstacle.
The birds rose as one and shoved him up through it.
—
Hearing my charge’s agitated mumbling, his wife came over to adjust his medications, the orb of her thoughts intruding upon mine just long enough for me to anticipate, as she was, the taste of the cup of tea she was about to leave the room to go downstairs to make.
For a moment, the three of us were one.
Or, rather, I was simultaneously one with each of them in turn.
Viv, Vivvy, Momma Lifeforce, Angel, he was thinking.
How he loved her. They’d been a team forever.
Although in truth he hadn’t loved it much when she’d wander into one of his business meetings sweetly bringing in iced tea or muffins. They’d had to have a little chat about that. Stern chat. Tears had been shed. By her. By way of saying: Hon, I see your point, I was wrong. Thereafter: no more interruptions. They’d laughed about the whole thing. Later. She’d admitted it: that talk had done her good. Plus, she’d said, now I have an entirely new sympathy for your workers. Then burst into tears. Again.
Well.
