Memory, Like Little Birds

 

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The small barn owl, asleep on her perch,

nearly topples into the manger, ruffling

her wings indignantly, glancing around

to see if anyone has noticed.

I know exactly how she feels.

My memory is full of sky and birds;

forever I am walking by a stormy sea,

a seagull passing me like an outtake

from Jonathan Livingston Seagull,

the bird who began my quest.

Imagine a flock of tiny shorebirds,

lifting, swirling and landing as one:

I will never not be thrilled by this,

or by the way the sun is already coaxing,

in January, crocuses and daffodils

out of the chilly earth, as the light lasts

a little longer each day.

I sit at my window like a conductor.

The show begins when I look out:

dogs go by, heads turning to see 

if the Woman With the Treats is here.

Tiny children from the daycare

pass with their guardians, reminding me

of being small, of my children

and grandchildren's childhoods.

How tender is the heart of a child.

How much we didn't know back then.

This is where memory takes me,

into a circular flight much like

the sandpipers, twirling and twirling

at the edge of the sea.

for Shay's Word List