Today is birding with three other great grandchildren of Thomas Sadler Roberts, with the author of the book about him leading the pack of us. We are not going until 11 AM. Hardly a time for any serious birder. But we, the great-grands, are not serious birders. We will tromp through the bird sanctuary, then on to Lakewood Cemetery to locate the Roberts plot. It is snowing. I did not bring my boots.
I always suspected
More than birds
Ran through my veins.
Despite my particular
Great-grandfather
I suspected
More than birds.
Still
Birds continue to serve
As punctuation for me.
Hawks place parentheses
In the sky
Where God is living
Or wait in trees
Still as anything.
Great blue herons stand still
As reeds,
Fish swim
In circle eights
Around their legs.
At least I imagine they do.
The herons stand still
As exclamation points
The mark the places
I need to be still
Myself.
Ducks of any variety
Are commas
Plentiful
They extend the conversation
On and on and on.
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