The Gray-Bird Gift

I pulled that small gray bird

out of the sky, my dear,

and gave it to you with unmitigated joy.

It stayed calm in your open hand,

then began a kind of skittish rhythm:

A quick-step-dance, grounded in fear. 

I had never seen a bird fear-dancing,

But, when younger,

I recall feeling a little this way

when cornered for a kiss,

but eventually gave in.

Those birds!   
Always so skittery   
on the wind for seed!

Anyway, back to the story:

Just after the bird regarded

your face, looking upward,

and then at me while I was looking at you,

it seemed to say:

Why did you take my wings,

my joy, and give them away?

That’s not your choice!

We looked at each other,

I mean the one with the bird

in hand, and then both of us at the bird,

both delighted at that rare surety of voice!

Not a sound, a word—we knew.

Free! And so…

You let the small gray bird go,

and, to my complete surprise,

leaned forward—still planted firmly

on the ground to proffer a hug,

that some might even call

a brief embrace— then quickly walked,

Then faster, ran down that path,

it almost seemed, flew away from me...

1.7.2013 

Poem and Photos:  Kay Weeks