crossed paths with a birder, his small boy,
beyond the boardwalk, built for watching.
what then did you see? birds I enjoy,
though inept with precise bird naming;
less than adept, I come to watch them,
seeking the Timeless for a poem.
the birder started pointing about:
over there is a great blue heron,
here a tern, and this one feeds on trout,
and that one flies with the Saharan
dust. his dad, could speak each precise name,
but this boy of the birder, his fame.
I ought to buy a good birding book
so that I too can be conversant:
I saw a bluish bird in the crook,
marsh marching through water and tall plant,
coming to a standstill, stealth statue,
shooting beak, flashing a fish poked through.
a little blue heron! the boy proclaimed,
the birder nodding in approval,
the bird is born snow white, the boy explained,
to forage with snowy egrets, crucial
to stirring up prey and getting a meal,
until it can no longer conceal.
but wait, once fully grown, colors change,
it becomes aggressive, lives alone.
don’t be a fake and try to look strange,
he cried, you’re more than another’s clone!
look to the sky and with others fly,
you’re wonderfully made by God On High!
Gary Edward Geraci