Now I will never

Now I will never go to the tern colonies
where I learned to spot nests in the sand
and collect chicks for you to band swiftly,
noting their sex and type: Common or Arctic or Least.
You blew on their bellies with a straw
to show there are no feathers there.
I felt their heartbeats tremble against my cheek,
their ankles that could snap like twigs.

I will never fall face-first in the sand,
body sprawled toward the one that got away:
if we are a week too late with the banding,
chicks run and scoot beyond my grasp.
Your torso shifts back
like an old tree laughing at me.
My hat is askew. Terns circle and squawk,
protesting our invasion. They dive
for the highest point: a tall stick
sewn to the side of my hat, inside of which
is blood, stained from other expeditions
when terns outsmarted us
or aimed badly in anger.
They escort us to the skiff,
restless like an army at the tide-line.

You knew how long those birds live,
when the chicks would be ready for flight,
the rate they traveled south on trade winds.

I knew how it felt to be small in the palm of your hand.