The Appropriate Name
The motion called to my attention.
On the lawn, something happening.
Staccato motions, flurries of dark spots.
Leaning my chin on the sill inside the glass,
Nose just below the edge of the blinds,
A horizontal slice of life beyond.
(Fat red robins. Infrequent. Wondrously arriving in unexpected flocks.)
So close… oh they were so close!
Close enough to know each one, each this-is-who-I-am,
and to name them.
Miss “I-was-here-first-in-the-birdbath” and you just better get on your way.
Miss “C’mon-it’s-my-turn-now” and I’m just going to flutter my way right in there.
Not to be.
Did I say how close they were? So close.
Close enough to see the brightness of their eyes.
Close enough to feel, in the dark space behind my eyelids,
stroking those soft feathers.
Close enough to wonder.
Where do they hide the hours when not in my birdbath?
How did they choose this yard, our yard, to be their landing place today?
Today. Maybe I should mark it on my calendar
as the day I saw and named the robins,
the day my who-I-am became
crazy old namer-of-birds-woman-at-the-window.
Or the day I remembered being young and small
and entered a world of wondering and writing,
of giving voice to musings on little birds.
And stopped. Took Time. Watched. Saw.
Whichever name is appropriate.
Did I say how close they were?