Holding Their Names
We carry their names all winter:
Black-throated Blue, Prothonotary, Blackburnian, Chestnut-sided, Nashville.
The names held inside, half-asleep,
listening for the wind to turn.
And then, one blustery evening,
the wind turned and brought us gifts.
I walked into the park and the air was full of song,
full of motion,
full of small bright bodies we had been waiting for since fall.
I joined a group of fellow birders
on the bridge over Sugar Creek.
We were all smiling.
We scanned the canopy
and softly called out the names
of the birds we were seeing.
And then the birds came down to meet us,
four feet above our heads,
close enough to see the rings around their eyes,
close enough to see them breathing.
And for one brief moment we sensed
that we were fellow travelers,
that we will always be
on the same journey.
We all went quiet.
Even the birds.
We observed each other.
And then a small rush of wings
carried them into the canopy,
and we were left with our quiet joy
and the sense that everything
will be okay.










There is nothing quite as lovely as opening my first email of the morning and finding one of your arresting bird photos as the first thing to greet me. Thanks for another beautiful post, Bill.
Magic is alive and well... wonderful words and pictures Bill.
Wishing you all well.