Death of a Tourist

Starling scattershot
over the sweep of vineyards,
heavy with fruit.

Foot-sore and weary, we reach the village,
find our hotel, shower, change, and reemerge. 
Just enough time before dinner to stroll along the pedestrian street 
past gingerbread shops, cafés, and half-timbered Alsatian houses.

I turn away from reading the plaque on the church to see her there, 
lying on the cobblestones outside a café,
partially screened by the medics working on her.
I can see gray hair, a stout torso, and sensible shoes.
Matronly, English, I think.
Her feet dance in rhythm to the CPR thrusts.

The stream of tourists flows unchecked along the street.
No friend is at her side.
Retreating to a noisy fountain, I watch.
I am pulling for her. 

That evening, we will sip honeyed Riesling
from the celebrated Sonnenglanz vineyard,
and a fattened tick will crawl down my cheek and plop onto the white tablecloth.
It will not be the last to find me.

The next morning we will learn that 
the week before a celebrity hanged himself in our hotel. 
I will imagine it happened in our room, 
with its curving staircase.

On our last day here, we will hike to the necropolis 
atop the Blutberg, site of the fiercest fighting.
Ranks of white crosses for the Christian, Muslim, and Jewish soldiers
against the patchwork of vineyards on gentler hills beyond.

This terroir, drenched in the blood of so many fallen.

At last, someone arrives with a defibrillator.
It's too late. She has slipped beneath the surface like a stone.
The medics pack up their gear. A silver hearse glides to a stop. 
The driver stands idly by, smoking, while they load her in.
A shopkeeper watching from a doorway turns back inside.

One time I went to clean out the woodstove,
And something inside thrashed wildly, spooking me.
I slammed the door shut, killing the creature. 
It was just a poor starling,
lured into a dark place.