Last night I had the freaky little dream. I must have been thinking of yesterday’s post about the Juvenile bald eagles I saw because I dreamed that high in the air above me was soaring an adult bald eagle with a very distinct white head and tail. For a moment I was sure that I was actually outside in a field somewhere. The sky was bright blue in the background (yes, I think I do dream in color), and the body and wings of the eagle were a chocolate-brown. Then it registered. The shape of the wings, and I knew it was just a dream.
Bald eagles do not hold their wings the way this bird did, not in a full soar, not while flapping against a headwind, not while diving for a fish, or mating in mid-air. The shape and position were completely wrong. A real bald eagle has long, plank-like wings that have a very straight leading edge, as in the pictured here. But the bird in my dream had its tail feathers fanned widely out like a cooper’s hawk, and its wings were swept forward like a red-shouldered hawk.
I lay there thinking, “Well, isn’t that queer? I guess I’m having a dream.” Then instantly I awoke to see, Milton the cat staring at me by my pillow, politely awaiting my journey to the kitchen for coffee at which time I always fill his feed dish.
So, because I like to connect the un-connectable, I thought today would be the perfect day for a poem about a man who traveled, collected data, drew and painted and eventually inspired the work of folks like Roger Tory Peterson, creator of the bible of birding identification, the Peterson Field Guide to Birds, and eventually people like Pete Dunn who’s book Hawks in Flight taught me exactly how an eagle holds its wings in flight. Of course a lot of those things you learn by observing, like they did, but Pete showed me what to look for.
John James Audubon was born on April 26th, 1785, so we’re a bit early in celebrating his birthday, but after all the poets whose birthdays I let slip by in March, it’s probably best I get on this early and talk about him now.
This poem was written by Stephen Vincent Benét, Pulitzer Prize winner and author of “The Devil and Daniel Webster” and “The King of Cats.” Speaking of Cats, did you know that Audubon also had sketched and painted cats? Yeah, his wife Lucy couldn’t quite believe it either, and as my friend Ricky says in the comments below, this poem is probably more about her than about him anyway.
From a time when the word queer meant strange or eccentric, here is poem number six in my NaPoRecMo series, “John James Audubon,” by Stephen Vincent Benét :
John James Audubon
Some men live for warlike deeds,
Some for women’s words.
John James Audubon
Lived to look at birds.
Pretty birds and funny birds,
All our native fowl
From the little cedar waxwing
To the Great Horned Owl.
Let the wind blow hot or cold,
Let it rain or snow,
Everywhere the birds went
Audubon would go.
Scrambling through a wilderness,
Floating down a stream,
All around America
In a feathered dream.
Thirty years of traveling,
Pockets often bare,
(Lucy Bakewell Audubon
Patched them up with care).
Followed grebe and meadowlark,
Saw them sing and splash.
(Lucy Bakewell Audubon
Somehow raised the cash).
Drew them all the way they lived
In their habitats.
(Lucy Bakewell Audubon
Sometimes wondered “Cats?”)
Colored them and printed them
In a giant book,
“Birds of North America”—
All the world said, “Look!”
Gave him medals and degrees,
Called him noble names,
—Lucy Bakewell Audubon
Kissed her queer John James.
by Stephen Vincent Benét
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