the oriole, the robin, and the wren
are engaged in a lively conversation
this Sunday morning
about how rapidly the tide
is going out, creating
one-foot swells as it races out to sea;
the oriole wonders
if the harbor might be emptied,
leaving lots of food exposed
to the winter sun;
the robin cackles a laugh,
as she spits out a chokeberry,
mistaken for bittersweet,
and the wren keeps her opinions
on the end of the harbor to herself;
the dripping of the melting snow
provides the only rhythm
for this sun-drenched conversation,
and I imagine you and I
as birds, flitting from branch to branch,
singing, laughing, loving,
and certain that at some point,
the tide will stop going out,
and return.

December 6, 2009, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

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