Richard K. Kent

Bluebird

 

 

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)

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