Bufflehead Cabin

Joseph Fasano

Multiple attempts to reintroduce captive-born ‘alalā to Hawaii’s Big Island have been unsuccessful, in large part because of the ‘io, or Hawaiian hawk, the ‘alalā’s last surviving natural predator. But now new hope is taking wing: a fresh class of five young ‘alalā has been released into the wild on the slopes of the Haleakalā volcano on the island of Maui, where ‘io are absent.

— Jaron Lanier

It is January, and there are crows like black flowers on the snow. While I watch, they rise and float toward the frozen pond, they have seen some streak of death on the dark ice. They gather around it and consume everything, the strings and the red music of that nameless body. Then they shout, one hungry, blunt voice echoing another. It begins to rain. Later, it becomes February, and even later, spring returns, a chorus of thousands. They bow, and begin their important music. I recognize the oriole. I recognize the thrush, and the mockingbird. I recognize the business of summer, which is to forge ahead, delicately. So I dip my fingers among the green stems, delicately. I lounge at the edge of the leafing pond, delicately. I scarcely remember the crust of the snow. I scarcely remember the icy dawns and the sun like a lamp without a fuse. I don’t remember the fury of loneliness. I never felt the wind’s drift. I never heard of the struggle between anything and nothing. I never saw the flapping, blood-gulping crows.

Heron fishing.