Archive
04/03/10 - (3)
A Mere Bird
How is it, this jubilant, sun-strewn Saturday afternoon, That a mere bird, A not-at-all-uncommon one in spring-singing Missouri, Could have caused me to get so felicitously, joyously lost, In witnessing the simplicities of its elemental existence, That, for the better part of a hypnotized half-hour, I followed it as it hopped from tuft to tuft, Digging into the earth's rich dirt, with its voracious beak, Searching for worms, to nurture it through this reawakening,
A bird I'd considered pedestrian, unimpressive, With its rust-hued breast, black head, gray feathers, And a song possessed of much less lyrical registers Than that of the red-invested house finch and cardinal? Perhaps my fascination had to do with its intrepidness, The fact that, all the while, it seemed to pay me no heed, Despite the shadow I cast across its constantly changing path; Possibly, it was the work ethic, discipline, purpose It brought to its second-to-second life-or-death task.
And maybe not. Just maybe the reason such an ordinary bird Had an unreasonably extraordinary effect on me, This early-April day before Easter, When fruit trees are in the prime of their brief prisming, And reconnected me with the origin, source of my design, Was because that modest robin did acknowledge me, As though it knew I not only meant it no harm But saw in it a kindred spirit, an independent presence, A self-reliant soul thriving on its own simple song.
04/03/10 - (3)
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