RAINBIRDS

RAINBIRDS

Overseas my uncle was called “Lucky,”
Sent home all his poker winnings
For a start.

After the war we stood out front
To welcome him.
Busloads went by cheering.
I caught one sailor’s hat.
At night the beacon flashed on the cliffs
Red…White…Red…White…Red…

He rose before dawn to farm
Flowers:
An acre behind the house.
Carnations, dahlias, glads.
I followed up the rows—
“Why do you hate snails?”
—And down, watching the poison mist settle
From the sprayer.

The garage stored ten gallon cans
Filled with dozens.
Summer I rode Dick’s big back
Heavy hooves packing
Before the low loosened the soil.

The garage grew too small.
All the cans moved to the empty buildings
Surrounded by acres of sage.
I couldn’t ride the tractor
Clearing the hills.

“Did people live in these buildings?”
The spaces between the boards three inches wide.
I thought Japanese lived across the Pacific.

Flower fields everywhere.
We rode between them in the green panel truck.
We arrived to turn on the pump
And railbirds slowly circled
Over acres of gladiolas
With the turning of one valve.
Around…Stop…Flick-flick…Flick-flick…

Home after sunset my uncle
Learned a little Spanish.
We drove to Immigration
Sometimes to Tijuana.
Metal quonsut huts had no spaces.
“Don’t they miss their families?”
I asked as we delivered lunch.
“Buenos dias,” they smiled
Cutting dozens and filling the cans
Red…White…Red…Orange

I knew stock in winter,
Glads in summer.
When the valve turned
And hundreds of railbirds
Threw rainbows
Over the flowers
I had the handsomest uncle in the world.

Even now I love the sound of railbirds.

Around…Stop…Flick-flick…Flick-flick…
Around…Stop…

#poetry