his way across my lawn in search of insects. Crouching low, my cat
was also watching - tail switching, sinews taut, his haunches' dance
announcing his impending pounce. But in that instant just before
the cat's explosive leap, the fledgling's parents broke his concentration,
diving low across his flattened form, and darting at his head -
first one, and then the other - from opposing sides they strafed and drove
him back a safer distance from their inattentive progeny. I knew
the adults' passion in their effort, as I had many times flown an attack
against a predator who threatened friendly forces in a war,
pecked his head with blasting rockets and intense machine-gun fire.
I can't recall if I have been the bird, or cat . . . or maybe both.
Back home when it was done, we raised an obelisk to executed Isaac because
for him there was no ram to take his place - or ours. And having fed
upon his flesh, we called poor Isaac "Hero," poured oil upon his skill,
held high the sacred goblet overfull with wine and poured it on the stone
as chisel bit his name into that monument. The grit-contaminated wine appeared
as blood which, splashing from the letter-gouges, seemed to issue from
from deep within the very rock itself. We soothe our conscience, honor those
consumed, whom we have sent to satisfy this festival of arrogance. We call them Heroes whom we have offered up to feed this fearsome carnival of gore. Around
the globe, in every city, we have built these walls, these limestone litanies,
these granite totem poles, these condemnation curses dug in stone, these names
whose bones, alone, have journeyed home in boxes . . . or stayed behind in foreign
dirt and dust. Carrion are thrown into the trash; but no one raises monuments
of requiem in stone for birds or cats, for no one's conscience burns for them.
We make this ample offering of souls again, over and over, again
and again, each generation rich in hope, and hope the carnage is
found pleasing to this golden beast whom we've created in our image,
Our greed has given bloody Ba'al form, whom we now feed our own.
In gratitude, we comfort a parade of widows and of grieving mothers, telling
them, "You may be proud, for he served well, stood firm before the face of hate,
until the gaping maw of Death snapped shut upon and swallowed him.
Here is his name in stone. He is a Hero; honor him. Remember him." Think not
about the altar or the knife . . . about the war . . . about the love and dreams
poured out to gorge this faithless Ba'al, this golden figurine. "Just honor him."
No one raised a monument for the robins. Their progeny survived - I watchd him sometime
later pull an earthworm from the grass. They had done what instinct told them to.
So, too, my cat had done. Still he stalks the feathered population and on
occasion leaves a trophy at my door. I must confess my admiration for bird
and cat, for their tenacity and courage. They need no monument for being what they are.
2/99-3/2K, R04/K02-01/K05