The Length of Never

 

How did the meadowlarks in Wichita

remain invisible for over two years?

Virgil showed up in the fourth grade

with five baby rabbits crammed into

a tan briefcase. Two died before lunch

recess, one squashed at playground’s

edge when it took a wrong turn—Kevin

stepped on it—and two dissolved into

the wheat field from which they were

plucked in the first place. Nature seemed

bountiful that day. The walk home tripled

in length as I searched for a yellow breast

with the black V. My disappointment

quadrupled before supper. Our class

toured a grain elevator the next day.

I watched the wheat-dotted blacktop

fill with sparrows as my voice spilled

a current of nevers on the man with

the face like a dry riverbed. His voice

was smoke and gravel, “Never means

something will not happen, forever.

You should not say that.” 

Out of the sun dropped a place named

Vietnam, then we moved to Ohio,

land of cardinals. Red spots dotted

the trees and bushes. Shrewd crows

attacked row after row of my uncle’s corn.

Guns were useless. Killdeers faked

broken wings, lured us into hope

and away from their nests. Ground-hogs

burrowed under tillable soil, escaping

from one hole as we dug at another. Still,

the sparrows were everywhere. We shot

them with BB guns, for a man hidden

underneath a John Deere hat. He hated

hordes, demanded that we line bodies up

for the count. As dust and slivers of husks

floated on his coffee he paid us for the

deaths, talked about the war and how

we would never lose. My voice was oak

and mint. “Never means something

will not happen forever. You should

not say that.” 

I was in Colorado recently and saw one,

a meadowlark. I know now of intentions

and accidents,  of dark skies and unstable

ground, of red spots and guns, of dropped

grain that doesn’t matter, of wars and when

to dump coffee. I know now that never

is a million sparrows later.