Creative Theft

The other night Andrew and I were talking on the phone, he'd had a good day, his energy was up and he asked me about what was going on with my poetry. (Not much because I am spending rather a big chunk of time taking care of him but...)

I told him I was entertaining an idea about The Dry Tortugas because I had heard an interview with a bird guy (Scott Weidensaul) taking about his book Return to Wild America and a trip he took to The Dry Tortugas (off the coast of Florida). It had for a long time one freshwater fountain in Fort Jefferson where weak storm battered migratory birds had learned to stop to drink, the only fresh water for many many miles. The fountain was destroyed by a hurricane in the late nineties but for a span of numerous generations of birds it was a haven.

Not being able to sleep that night, he stayed up late doing research and wrote this little piece. I particularly love the last line.

Dry Tortugas

A likely place to search for buried treasure...
or last respite for swindlers and their banks...
the 'floating world' of money, drugs and leisure
(first tortoise-slow, then yet so crazedly)
now slides, next claws, then burrows in her flanks.
The fortress, unremembered, echoes words
like 'sanctuary', 'prison', 'pardon', 'free'.
And 'Mercy!'...on the tongues of many birds.