You are a bird

You are the robin sat in the branches of my tree after all its leaves have fallen and been raked up and away.

Now you are the little chickadee hopping around the patio of my favorite coffee shop, waiting and watching for the crumbs of an almond croissant or a kouign-amann or a blackberry danish or a green tea and red bean muffin.

Now you are the Steller’s jay who perches on the antenna on my neighbor’s roof shouting in strange tongues.

Now you are the kingfisher mounted behind glass at the American Museum of Natural History. They stuffed you and contorted your body so visitors could see the stripes on your belly.

Now you are the crow who stands on my fence post and who leaves treasures in my yard for my child to find. A thick hunk of green glass from the base of bottle, the head of a nondescript action figure. M—— is mine, you cannot have them.

Now you are the heron knee deep in tidewater, stepping, searching, snatching for fish, slowly and then quickly. You catch one. You miss others.

Now you are the hummingbird who drank from the feeder hanging outside my kitchen window. I never prepared your sugar water, that was all S——, but I did hang the feeder from time to time. You’re the hummingbird who sat steadfast guarding that sugar water from other hummingbirds, who froze during the winter cold. We buried you between the roots of your holly tree and marked your grave with the smoothest stone we could find. We called you Gumdrop.

Now you are the goose flying through the night sky, honking in the dark, leading your skein for a time. How do you know when to let another lead? How do you know when to stop?

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Ro—bin red breast / cro—ow fly—ing ’round

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This post is part of the IndieWeb carnival for September 2025 hosted by Sophia.