Works by the Late Phil Fitzpatrick

The late Phil Fitzpatrick, a dear friend to me and so many others, grew up in St. Paul, MN in a family of established and budding birders. Endless outdoor activities with his brothers and his parents’ friendship with bird artist Francis Lee Jacques lead him into the wonders of bird life. He maintained this interest through several moves before settling in Duluth about 25 years ago. Of course he enjoyed the natural beauty and endless outdoor opportunities that this northern Midwest city affords, but he turned his attention to Duluth’s renowned Hawk Ridge Bird Observatory only a few years ago.

Every aspect of Hawk Ridge captivated him: the skill and camaraderie of the naturalists and bird counters, the wonder and gratitude of visitors, and of course the hundreds of thousands of raptors and songbirds that migrated down the Canadian shores of Lake Superior to enter US flyways at this westernmost point of the Great Lakes. An author to his core, Phil immediately knew he would write about this fascinating oasis of bird culture. When poems finally suggested themselves, his collection Hawks on High was born.

Phil made his own migration two years after the publication of Hawks on High. A stroke that took much of his autonomy forced him three miles southeast as the raptors fly to a rehabilitation facility. There he worked hard to rebuild his muscles and brain pathways, charmed roommates and helpers, acted the charismatic and garrulous host to countless visitors, and longed for his former life. Though he admirably progressed toward reclaiming that life, a catastrophic medical event imposed the ultimate migration in November 2022.

One of Phil’s last public outings was attendance at Hawk Ridge’s 50-year anniversary celebration. The staff surprised him with a public reading of one of his poems. He was so moved. On the way home that night he said, with the melancholic hope that seemed his dominant register in those days, that just like his beloved raptors he had migrated south for rest, and he was ready to match their return north. He didn’t get to make that journey. Any life has repetitions—like migrations—and singularities—like death. Migrations temper our awareness that death will prevail by patterning our transitory lives with purpose, familiarity, and beauty—as Phil himself patterned so many lives.

Just Specks

pointing out threads of birds

streaming above the ridge

John says they’re just specks

he counts them as we watch

enters the final number

mechanically, as he must

I try to think of each bird,

each dusky nighthawk, as a

speck in a continuous line

stretching back down time

back before the cataclysm

sixty-seven point four mya

following the seasons with

its precious genetic code

think of each flighted speck

from origin to destination

think of the fraught journey

these specks more unique

than identical in the stream

like all of us here watching

Flying Ichabods

One day I heard the flying Ichabods

Better known as the sandhill cranes:

Long necks in front and longer legs behind

Squawking their way to midwestern plains.

Their characteristic clanking sounds bizarre

Whether you’re up close or far off.

Sounds like they are gargling metal

Or an alien’s horrible cough.

Starting in March, the sandhill cranes converge

In Nebraska on the River Platte.

For six weeks, they are loading up on corn,

Then they fly north when they’re good and fat.

The Sleepy Hollow Ichabod’s named Crane,

A teacher with a funny face;

But, while on land cranes might look quite strange,

In the sky, they are full of grace.

If you think what you’re hearing is honking

But you know it isn’t from geese,

Grab your binos and bird book; start studying,

Your knowledge of cranes to increase.

So, next time you are watching for hawks

And hear noisy squawks in the sky,

Look for a string of slender birds up above,

And listen while the sandhill cranes fly by.