I hope you’ll enjoy this long-form piece about the life of a bird who passed away in February this year. Her name was Walnut, and I decided to write this piece after reading about her in The Guardian.
Note: This poem has unique spacing and line breaks. The best way to view this poem is from a desktop computer, as mobile viewing will impact how lines will break across your screen. If things look odd, that is probably why. Enjoy the ride :—)
for Walnut
I. Wisconsin, 1981 Walnut hatched in America’s Dairyland where they founded the Republican Party her eggshell nestled in the husk thicket. The year Walnut was born President Reagan was elected who once said— “trees cause more pollution than automobiles do.” and then said— “If you’ve seen one tree you’ve seen them all.” truth never spreads as fast as lies like this.
II. The National Zoo's North American White-Naped Crane Species Survival Program Walnut’s parents were wild what we call birds unclaimed by cage white-naped cranes of which fewer than 5,300 remain today in Mongolia in China and in Russia although borders matter little to birds their dwindling population bolstered by egg donations from U.S. zoos. Genus: Antigone and similarly doomed with purpose as are we and all are doomed meaning not dead yet
III. The institute of biology and dance Walnut named after pie was shipped to the Smithsonian when she was 23 and aggressive. I remember being that way. She rejected every mate and sliced the bellies of two males clean open. Shit, I can’t blame her. Have you seen how the world is today? How rage overcomes reason how wing becomes dagger? On her enclosure a red warning placard was hung: ( CAUTION ) AGGRESSIVE CRANE Each morning at the fence she flung her head back elongating her neck into a straight line to call out HEnnnk HEeerrerrerrr eck eck eck eck It would be here where she would meet her mate for the next fifteen years of her life: her human keeper Chris who offered her cornmeal, frozen-thawed mice, peanuts, mealworms, calcium for her eggs, and leaves to build her nest. She would purr with every offer snatching leaves from his outstretched hands. He was cautious. He moved slow. He studied male cranes during breeding season and mimicked them flapping his armwings bobbing his head along with her hopping spinning waltzing floating together in the quiet sweat trickling into the corners of his eyes as hers strong vermillion met his.
IV. Chris would say— Walnut was “Vivacious…an excellent dancer.”
V. From dancing to artificial insemination to days spent outside in the Blue Ridge shade to bearing eight chicks to forty-two years then in February on one day like any other Walnut refused food and surrounded by all the humans who loved her slipped beyond the veil. VI. Inner monologue doomscrolling what is there to say about a bird dying that's the Anthropocene, baby shit happens VII. What left behind? this bird—Walnut this white-naped crane this last bastion of hope for a kinder world than the one we have who lived alone who refused her kind who now lives on within sixteen strong vermillion eyes those same eyes her ancestors lived through and loved through those eyes that bent their weary legs in the tussocks in wet sedge meadows nestled in reedbeds by the 長江 as Populus suckled the soil bone dry or by bogs or by lakes or wherever the frost or the sun or the time told them to wintering wetlands summering Spain some crossing the DMZ while some others remained borders matter little to birds but matter so much to us and each year those eyes witnissed their flock their construction their dance their sedge their seige their swoop succumb to our oil spill car port heat rise mine drill air port sea rise and it wasn't just one tree or one bird or one automobile I've seen them all and they've all seen me I wonder if eight chicks or sixteen eyes are enough or one dance with one crane with one human is enough or if witnessing one death out of so many is enough but if you’ve seen one you've seen them all and if you’ve seen one you've seen them all and they've all seen you and they've all seen you
This piece, like much of my current work, was born out of simultaneously witnessing the mass death of vulnerable wildlife populations, the mass death of vulnerable human beings through genocide and war, and the singular deaths we read about as we doomscroll: celebrities, friends, both named and unnamed victims of violence, 42-year-old cranes.
What does it mean, to be a witness,
and what does it mean to witness and to mourn the death of other living creatures?
I’m growing ever-interested in the intersection of ecopoetics and poetry of witness.
Thank you for reading, and I’d love to hear your thoughts— about birds, death, poetry…and if you’re interested in learning more about cranes, I’ve left some resources below, including videos of Walnut and her keeper Chris, information about white-naped cranes, and resources surrounding crane and bird conservation.
Megan
Additional Resources
White-naped Crane Species Field Guide — International Crane Foundation
Center for Species Survival — Smithsonian’s National Zoo & Conservation Biology Institute
White-naped Crane — Smithsonian’s National Zoo & Conservation Biology Institute
Thank you for sharing about Walnut .. life and death .. as seen by others .. and so connected to how we humans see each other .. all so very different but often lumped together .. is it really true that if you’ve seen one you’ve seen them all? It reminds me of a scene in the film Harold & Maude where Maude says, “Each person is different, never existed before and never to exist again. Just like this daisy ..” .. and just like Walnut.
I so appreciate the poignancy that you portray Walnut and the inner monologue and questions posed of what it means to our world as a whole—what it means to be a witness. We really need more people to think more big picture. It’s not just one bird, or one group… the losses affect us all, even if we can’t see it yet. One day the consequences will harm us, too, if not then the next generations. Is it worth it?
Great piece Megan!