I saw
the red-bellied woodpecker on a walk in the forest with my father. It was after
my uncle died. We were walking to a small stream to fish. My father
was still mourning and I was too young to understand. I still remember the strikingly
barred back of the red-bellied woodpecker as if white and black ribbons were
sewn into his spin. He had a haunting beauty with his red cap, black-knifed beak, and
pale body—a kind of beauty that could scare you away if you really focused on
it, that could numb you. His body punctured the side of a dead snag and from
his position I gathered he had only one eye. And that one eye stared down into my
father and me, into our bodies, and sometimes I think I can still feel it. That eye was the smallest dark I’d ever seen and I knew something had to be darker
inside of it.
He flew quickly and erratically through the forest, all around us, abruptly changing directions, alighting for an instant and immediately taking off again. All the while letting out a glut of long and deafening shrills, rolling kwirr or churr calls, coughing cha cha cha cries, throaty growls at the other birds, at the earth, at us. “Listen,” my father said, “listen to that violent sound.” This odd behavior is categorized as a type of play to help young birds escape predators, but it felt more like an evasive taunting as if our big bodies were this small body’s prey.
In the moment we finally caught him, when he finally let his body rest, and his throat quiet, he was wedging a large caterpillar into the barked scar of a tree. His long, sticky tongue teasing it, his one nail drilling into the seized caterpillar body, breaking it apart into manageable pieces that he could devour. He did devour them; all those bright pieces of caterpillar sliding down his throat into a dark hole. He was as unforgettable as grief. He was grief and the caterpillar was my father’s heart. I took them both out of the forest that day, my father and the red-bellied woodpecker—that one eye, that dark hole, and those two pale bodies.
He flew quickly and erratically through the forest, all around us, abruptly changing directions, alighting for an instant and immediately taking off again. All the while letting out a glut of long and deafening shrills, rolling kwirr or churr calls, coughing cha cha cha cries, throaty growls at the other birds, at the earth, at us. “Listen,” my father said, “listen to that violent sound.” This odd behavior is categorized as a type of play to help young birds escape predators, but it felt more like an evasive taunting as if our big bodies were this small body’s prey.
In the moment we finally caught him, when he finally let his body rest, and his throat quiet, he was wedging a large caterpillar into the barked scar of a tree. His long, sticky tongue teasing it, his one nail drilling into the seized caterpillar body, breaking it apart into manageable pieces that he could devour. He did devour them; all those bright pieces of caterpillar sliding down his throat into a dark hole. He was as unforgettable as grief. He was grief and the caterpillar was my father’s heart. I took them both out of the forest that day, my father and the red-bellied woodpecker—that one eye, that dark hole, and those two pale bodies.
The Woodpecker
By Elizabeth Madox Roberts
The woodpecker pecked out a little round hole
And made him a house in the telephone pole.
One day when I watched he poked out his head,
And he had on a hood and a collar of red.
When the streams of rain pour out of the sky,
And the sparkles of lightning go flashing by,
And the big, big wheels of thunder roll,
He can snuggle back in the telephone pole.
The woodpecker pecked out a little round hole
And made him a house in the telephone pole.
One day when I watched he poked out his head,
And he had on a hood and a collar of red.
When the streams of rain pour out of the sky,
And the sparkles of lightning go flashing by,
And the big, big wheels of thunder roll,
He can snuggle back in the telephone pole.
"He had a haunting beauty with his red cap, black-knifed beak, and pale body—a kind of beauty that could scare you away if you really focused on it, that could numb you."
ReplyDeleteMarguerite,
This entry is absolutely beautiful and not simply because of the heartbreak you so eloquently capture. I think this is such an incredible example of infusing a piece on human experience with a natural element, almost to the point where we can't tell if we should focus on your family's loss or the glory of the woodpecker. This is a great example to me on how to write about nature in a way that's both informative but doesn't stray from my desire to connect it with personal experience. A true pleasure to read.
Marguerite,
ReplyDeleteThis post is filled with vivid and beautiful imagery alongside a intimate and tender moment. I enjoyed that you took a memory that you have of you and your dad walking in the woods and transformed it into realizing how precious and impacting that moment was on not only your dad, but on you as well. Your description of the woodpecker is detailed and you consistently used your poetic voice throughout this post. It's haunting and beautiful all at once. Thanks for sharing your memory and experience!
-Erin
I admire this entry on so many levels. On a purely personal level, I admire it because I have a special fondness for red-bellied woodpeckers. At my previous house we used to have a pair that lived in the tree across the street and would visit our feeders (a behavior pretty unusual for this species). I miss them greatly. But more than that, I admire the narrative here, the way you've seamlessly infused the natural with the personal and used that tapestry to speak to a universal human emotion. Breathtaking.
ReplyDelete