by Paul Ragonese
At first, all you know is that it’s a bird.
That it sings, that it must breathe
in order to sing, that it is alive.
That it flies, that it is different
from yourself because it flies. That its
song is different when it flies, more urgent,
like when you run.
You need not know
if it is a cowbird or a warbler or a blue jay,
although, come to think of it, you know
it is not a blue jay.
That it lays eggs
in some sort of nest and that these eggs
hatch baby birds in kind. That these
babies will fly in just a few short weeks.
That they, too, will sing.
All of this
without a name.
That it has feathers,
one of which you may have picked up
on a wooded walk to admire the vibrant
colors or the gently patterned brown.
That it, like you, avoids the rain.
That it, like you, goes out each day
in search of food. That it is unburdened
from a job, but fills the time just fine.
And when you discover that its name
is Carolina Chickadee, or Yellow-throated Vireo,
or White-breasted Nuthatch, when you learn
that it will perch on reeds along the pond
and nest in tree hollows and birdhouses,
that some believe it mates for life,
this cannot take away any of your
more basic knowledge, only making plain
for those who are listening,
that you are talking about a dear friend
whose voice you’ve always admired.
Paul Ragonese is an MFA student at the University of St. Thomas in Houston, TX. He is interested in exploring how faith, curiosity, and a love for the natural world can come together in creative pursuits. He has been published in the Eastern Pennsylvania Poetry Review.