Jason Barry
Among the Weka
Stevensons Island, New Zealand
See again
the way the birds moved in,
their ducking under Mother—
seeking cover from
a shag or gull or whatever
it was that cast its
shadow onto landscape,
the fledging rails
finding solace under wing—
a rotting weasel carcass
between them and me.
Yet how they’d coo
and zee their necks as
soon as feeding moment
came, myself at first
intruder on the scene
and then—when birdseed
flew the air—how they’d
weave through tussock
grass near dock’s landing.
Once I tossed grey
pellets by the handful
on the outcrop,
cocked my snare to
ready, and waited
for the foraging chicks
to tiptoe onto wire.
When they approached
the trap in pairs,
Mother’s screech ricocheted
like a ring around
the island and they
scattered, headlong under
fern and feather canopy—
safe at least until
the rats came around.
The Feed
To feel her standing on our backs
was dreadful: the way she dug her claws
in when she jumped, a high-pitched scream
and snarl before the snap and shut of teeth,
a chunk of dangling meat above our necks.
The week before our trip, a Spanish tourist
got his forehead bitten off, a piece of curled skin
beneath the Rover’s shining headlights,
the blood-spotted hyena running off. . .
Our driver stopped. We knelt down
to the ground. The scent of cattle carcass
brought her eyes out of the darkness.
A camera flashed. We felt her pass
between us. I saw the dirt rise
when she turned around.
