Look at that bird, I say.

Isn’t it beautiful?

Isn’t that strange,

so early in the season

and the trees are

just now budding.

“What?” You stop

in mid-sentence.

That wasn’t the topic.

Your question has no

chance of an answer,

no verbal remittance.

Instead we turn to

observe the restless

bird, a passerine,

smaller than a warbler

but not quite a chickadee,

newly arrived on the

bootheels of winter,

preening, fluttering about,

magical and unnamed,

showing off his wings.

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