F E B R U A R Y 1 9 9 4

MOCKINGBIRDS

This morning

two mockingbirds

in the green field

were spinning and tossing



the white ribbons

of their songs

into the air.

I had nothing



better to do

than listen.

I mean this

seriously.



In Greece,

a long time ago,

an old couple

opened their door



to two strangers

who were,

it soon appeared,

not men at all,



but gods.

It is my favorite story--

how the old couple

had almost nothing to give



but their willingness

to be attentive--

but for this alone

the gods loved them



and blessed them--

when they rose

out of their mortal bodies,

like a million particles of water



from a fountain,

the light

swept into all the corners

of the cottage,



and the old couple,

shaken with understanding,

bowed down--

but still they asked for nothing



but the difficult life

which they had already.

And the gods smiled, as they vanished,

clapping their great wings.



Wherever it was

I was supposed to be

this morning--

whatever it was I said



I would be doing--

I was standing

at the edge of the field--

I was hurrying



through my own soul,

opening its dark doors--

I was leaning out;

I was listening.





Mary Oliver is the writer-in-residence at Sweet Briar College, in Virginia. She received the Pulitzer Prize for poetry in 1984 for her book American Primitive.

Copyright © 1994 by The Atlantic Monthly Company. All rights reserved.

The Atlantic Monthly; February 1994; Mockingbirds; Volume 273, No. 2; page 80.