Reprieve of the Ivory-Bill
[Each] member of the team had encounters with the woodpecker
and often heard its call, which has been described
like hearing a child puff into a tin trumpet.
—The Guardian
Years ago a door swung shut
At Singer Tract, leaving only
Faded film of black & white
Plumage, a faint recording of its
Plaintive call—a child’s trumpet
Sounding the end of Eden
As we’d known it. The canopy
Closed overhead where chips
Of Sweetgum fell at our feet.
Now years in the future, the
Door to that long-shuttered room
Swings open, sunlight finds
The far wall, inviting us back
In to glimpse that rarest of
Second chances, asking only:
How will it be different this time?