Cages stacked high, piled up wobbly,
Like in the markets and squares of distant villages I've seen on the Food Network Channel.
Crab Pots caked in gauzy green sea matter, crusted in rust, wafting fishy in the humid, marshy balm.
Colorful. Tied up and dressed up in orange buoys and blue tape.
Wound with sandy ropes.
I take a photo.
The sky is quiet, bright, barely streaked. Contrails.
The 4:00 September sun backlights an unfolding drama to the west.
At first only a flutter, blackness, a blur.
But the flicker becomes a form.
Maybe litter blowing about in one of the cages, or some strip of seaweed torn loose by the breeze.
Closer, moving closer; it's the silhouette of a frantic bird beating her wings and head against the wires.
She is trapped.
A bright yellow Finch caught in the center of this pyramid of crab pots!
This pile, left uncleaned and uncovered, has become a smorgusborg of sun dried sea meat too tempting for scavengers to ignore.
WHY NOT HIDE THIS FEAST? THIS DEATH TRAP?
Wasn't it meant ONLY to capture seafood?
And isn't that enough?
WHY NOT TARP THIS TRAP?
Such a simple solution it seems.
A tarp, a big one with bungee cords bright and tight.
A tarp, a tan one the color of our beaches.
Or yellow like the Finch, like CAUTION!
We tried so hard to save her. We unlatched, unhinged, and unstacked, climbing fragilely upon the pots towards the top.
We teetered.
Finch was growing weary, flapping less flippantly.
Surrounded by skeletons and carcasses, beaks and feathers bleaching in the sun.
I store away one skull (beak still intact) in my dress pocket.
Finch is desperate, she must be so terrified.
She must also be a lucky bird.
We are able to free her, and a few others too.
A black bird and a sparrow.
We let them go perhaps only in vain.
I leave the scene with a skull, a beak, a story and a mission.
I grew up on the Eastern Shore of Virginia. I was visiting my family there when I saw the disturbing things I described in my poem. I saw nearly 30 bird skeletons in just one stack of crab pots. My friend Jerome Nottingham and I were able to free a few that were still alive. I was shocked by this! I was more shocked and disgusted to hear from people I told the story to that they see it all the time. Waterman bring the pots in to dry. The birds find a way in to eat the fish and crab scraps. Like the crabs and fish they seldom find their way back out. I can't believe there isn't some easy solution to prevent this from happening. I imagine a tarp, or old clothes, or newspapers stuffed in the openings would work. I'm not a watermen so I don't know. I assume there are some waterman out there who do care, and do take preventative measures. I hope they will share what the know with other watermen, and that anyone who sees this carnage will speak up. There must be something that can be done. Please, if you read this, pass it along to any waterman you know. Tell them to send any suggestions or comments my way. I would love to help solve this.
Thank you so much,
Mary Killmon, and all the little birdies! :>
