Hunnered
In Shetland, that’s the word
for weary, exhausted, bone tired, as we say
here in Oregon, about to fold. We’ve all been there—
out on our feet, unsteady, reeling, feeling
pulled through a knothole backward, wishing
we could dig a hole and pull the hole in after us.
And then here comes morning and the birds.
Today, as if they’ve heard us flip the calendar
to February, they arrive, a host of wings,
small hearts jubilant with faint rumors of spring.
A dozen sparrows squabble over birdhouses still
filled with last year’s nests and on the maple branch
a pair of collared doves caress each other’s necks.
Juncos, house finches, three flickers wearing bibs,
a black-capped chickadee, the downy woodpecker—
and look! two white-splashed quiverings of orange
and black and bright. The spotted towee’s
brought his cousin. A goldfinch finds the thistle seed
and leaps off into air to spread the word. Now
a mob of robins appears out of nowhere, feathers
in soft focus, murmuring in Robin to each other,
heads cocked our way as if they know
how much we count on their return, especially
when we’re hunnered.
Bette Lynch Husted sees the Columbia River Gorge in all seasons in her monthly commute from Eastern Oregon to her Portland-area “Side Porch Poets” writing group. In Pendleton, she helps coordinate the First Draft Writers’ Series, watches birds, and practices Tai Chi. Her books include the novel All Coyote’s Children (OSU Press), two collections of memoir essays, Above the Clearwater: Living on Stolen Land (OSU Press) and Lessons from the Borderlands (Plain View Press), and the poetry collection At This Distance (Wordcraft of Oregon).
