The New Bird
In spring I heard a new bird across the road. It was red-brown and easy to locate in the young leaves of a maple. I couldn’t figure out what it was, which was pretty thrilling.
Summer has now hidden the bird in leaves and I still haven’t made an I.D. The creek branch has gone dry. A week ago minnows roiled and smothered.
The bird calls. It calls from over my shoulder. In the yard I walk under the ash tree, battered by a nameless din.
by Bill Knight