, , , , , , , ,

He’s been staring out
the kitchen window
for a good long minute,
my little toddler son.
He watches the mallards
and flame-colored cardinals
doing their bird things
in the rain.
The little ornithologist.

I’m not surprised.
He listened to a lot of
Charlie Parker in the womb.
He might be able, in his soft,
robin’s-egg-blue soul,
to connect the dots,
to get that the whimsical
bebop stylings he’d known
before he even opened his eyes
and the way feathered creatures
move, whether in languor
or in flight, are one
and the same.
Two renditions of the same
divine thought.

I always picked the rare recordings
for him to hear, the versions
that didn’t make it
to the radio or the official LPs,
to help my then unborn child
better understand
that the world is
an unfinished place,

and lives are riffs
on the act of being rehearsed
and improvisation leads
to great discoveries,
which give life its joy
and its meaning

and it’s perfectly OK to feel
foreign inside your own skin

to align the unfettering
of your awareness with
the portents of spring
as if, at least in your soft,
robin’s-egg-blue soul,
you have hidden wings that
discovering your personal
anthem would unfold.

“Little Bird” by photographer Daniela Babic


You might also like: