Hard to resist this topic, as the first real spring-like day of the year is here in Chicagoland – sun, temps in the 70s, a little breeze, windows and doors wide open, and the White Sox winning. Can’t get much better.
You are such a cliché, red breast protruding
as you hop near a clutch of crocuses, whose
purple mouths, half open, sing the season.
Soon we will find your nest in the forsythia,
paste plastic warnings on the patio doors
to prevent your kamikaze thumping. We
have heard you chirp the dawn for weeks,
but wind and cold have kept you sheltered
in branches and bushes just beginning to bud.
Now your beak breaks through the thaw
to grub for feed, collects bits of string, snack
bags escaped from trash. You are the perfect
omen, Emily’s splendid feathered hope.