Every meadow has its ghosts,
especially as it fails back into forest.
Towhees at the edge call and startle,
while warblers among high branches
vanish, become disembodied song hidden
amid too many leaves, leaf-shadows.
Following the ear, the eye searches,
squints until puzzling wears down
resolve or another sound distracts.
I let my gaze drift toward the clearing’s
sunlit center; and there perched, as if
beckoning any beholder, a bird common
to some, to others rarest exception.
Blend of cerulean and rain-slate blue,
the robin’s cousin with its rust-red breast,
orchard visitor, meadow connoisseur. After
all these years looking, I see you now at last this
Memorial Day. In the air, as you fly, blue beautiful pulse.
~ For David Young and in memory of Elizabeth Hedrick (July 12, 1917-May 28, 2007)