Last spring, I found myself
wandering through the woods,
wide-eyed like a child,
an amateur ornithologist with
a pocketful of questions,
each feathered mystery glowing
like the last light of day.
I would kneel beside the nests,
tiny homes cradled in leaves,
the eggs speckled and brilliant,
like tiny planets just waiting
to hatch into a universe
of chirps and flutters,
never knowing their names.
Each step in the underbrush
felt like a secret,
my heart thumping with
the rhythm of twigs snapping
like guilty confessions—
the trees overheard it all,
whispering tales of the lost.
And still, I followed the call,
the rustle of wings,
the soft parade of rabbits,
nature’s parade unfurling
as if to remind me
that wonder can exist
in the simplest of things.
So I leaned down,
eyes wide to the world,
breathing in the spring air,
and marveled at yellow warblers,
as they wove their songs,
an ode to the persistence
of life in a fragile egg.