no definitive why
NOT KNOWING WHY
Adolescent white pelicans squawk, rustle, flap their wings,
lift off in a ragged spiral at imaginary danger.
What danger on this island in the middle
of Marble Lake? They’re off to feel
the lift of wind under their iridescent wings,
because they were born to fly,
because they have nothing else to do,
because wind and water are their elements,
their Bach, their Homer, Shakespeare,
and Spielberg. They wheel over the lake,
the little farms, the tourist village with their camera eyes.
In autumn something urges
them toward Texas marshes. They follow
their appetites and instincts, unlike the small beetles
creeping along geometric roads, going toward small boxes,
toward lives as narrow or as wide as the pond,
as glistening or as gray as the sky.
They do not know why. They fly, they fly.
Ann Struthers
Copyright ©2009 by Ann Struthers
and so the question is why. everything, why? let us talk, then, of the seemingly knowable whys. why did i do that? why did he? why did she? why did they? perhaps even narrower than that; perhaps only i.
some answers are easy: i put on my gloves because my hands were cold. that's simple enough, isn't it? maybe this: i went to the store to buy milk because i had run out. (already for this i can think of a dozen other comments that would be necessary for you to fully understand my motivations, but i don't think they're important. yet who am i to judge?)
lift off in a ragged spiral at imaginary danger.
What danger on this island in the middle
of Marble Lake? They’re off to feel
the lift of wind under their iridescent wings,
because they were born to fly,
because they have nothing else to do,
because wind and water are their elements,
their Bach, their Homer, Shakespeare,
and Spielberg. They wheel over the lake,
the little farms, the tourist village with their camera eyes.
In autumn something urges
them toward Texas marshes. They follow
their appetites and instincts, unlike the small beetles
creeping along geometric roads, going toward small boxes,
toward lives as narrow or as wide as the pond,
as glistening or as gray as the sky.
They do not know why. They fly, they fly.
Ann Struthers
Copyright ©2009 by Ann Struthers
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7r-3x11soPMjiFXoSfXiiJcBBa_N2lovgevHdyN5kU66udykb7R2tC25w-HssO2jam6YbxRuUlx8RXZBlR3KJo48u4T-ozyMWt-3ZEl6z-Q0THakN0OSS7O_qlDrhFnHTpbg7Lw/s200/Helene+Schjerfbeck+slf-portrait.jpg)
some answers are easy: i put on my gloves because my hands were cold. that's simple enough, isn't it? maybe this: i went to the store to buy milk because i had run out. (already for this i can think of a dozen other comments that would be necessary for you to fully understand my motivations, but i don't think they're important. yet who am i to judge?)
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirc40Uq7vRBQ-lIqR8r5gu9yp2p1TurKtM_m4NNTOM92nWZGiC9RJcukyicRxGyDy9GgarsmRZrKRjgIazWg_KJWxMgRO7opHmjadlWJ91FmDp5oVo0K3fahyphenhyphenOGiAx9cLCSD8C_Q/s200/albert.jpg)
in psych 101 they teach about richard who, when he was in the school library, stretched his leg. it was cramped, what can i say? but martin, who was walking by, tripped on the out-stretched leg. both martin and marcy, who was watching, were sure richard had done it on purpose.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzUwRR3Fw8QJUx8Vo7aCmn_yzCUM9Kdbxd6eEuvjR5cxZu-KUXsOL5FFqnE3pzmPFtZImAkEVu9PDvmS-fXaEGSg0FhISGINHVfNLr_Cd7p0SPjiMlZIEnCJzpF8DCevlbnu-p7Q/s200/april.jpg)
her best friend credited it to his honesty and ability to hang shelves, and his best friend knew that he had finally found someone who actually thought he was smart. and her therapist knew that he was just like her father. or maybe pheromones.
we do this all the time, why did i.....? and we think we can figure it out. we can't.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ6E6sd3CzmxsVqUPsOcYRYvTLut2kLv7P5LOUS4pIbpgUGo9-7pnRawsuCjdG6aNTObffNtkrLvVYN1vwHZ5XgJyKZRBbAc6Fg5G_iUOgQccWq8czJwGgUyA16tArw6IqhrvliQ/s200/will.jpg)
we don't know why. we fly. we fly.
Labels: albert, Ann Struthers, edouard halouze, Helene Schjerfbeck, toulouse-lautrec, will carqueville