Anna McLoud Gibbs

Baby birds

Oh, but sing! I have saved another beetle.
And a bumblebee, and two inchworms.
Ryan and I try to climb the gnarled spruce,
The one with the bulbous knot halfway up.
It’s sticky. We pretend the sap will hold our palms.

Oh, but look. We plant seeds under the swingset in the dirt.
On top of the monkey bars, birds nest in a metal pipe.
We are scared to peep at them in case we scare them.
We crouch by the slide and wait for our popcorn tree to grow.

Yes, we build a raccoon trap after that rabid one died in our yard.
We stake out on the backseat floor of the car eating Gogurts.
We take turns peering our heads over the door handle.
There’s no net. We will have to catch it with our eyes.

Oh, but we are tall. When I swing, my feet tap
the top of the very tall pine. At least 100 feet. Ryan finds
a cracked bird egg and the yolk is the size of his pupil.
I’m grateful there was no baby bird, though I suppose there was