The Bird and Me

This is a poem about a bird I saw through my kitchen window.

“The Bird and Me”

Yesterday, I made coffee, and as I stood there at the sink, there it was—
a bird
          just on the eave.

It was gray or brownish—just a little fellow, but it's
head and breast were red like a
                                                      bloodstain or blush.

A gradient! The professional designer in me thought because
it had an intense coral center that faded off
                                                                            into the edges.

In poetry classes, a teacher insisted on naming things in our work. So we walked beaches in San Luis Obispo and Big Sur. We camped on the hot ground of
Joshua tree all to use words like
                                                       honeysuckle, sagebrush, chaparral, sea cabbage, snowy plover or black-throated sparrow.

 What is your name? I know you are next to my
loquat tree where the fruit is 
                                                   yellow and overipe in January due to winter storms.

I know my home is fenced by Eugenia bushes, and they've yet to
bloom the red berries that will feed you
                                                                     this overbright summer.

But who are you? We stare at each other waiting for one to
decide to move on with life first. 

And I don't want to make the moment disingenuous. When I walk away
I don't want to turn you into search terms:
                                                        "grey bird native California red breast."

Maybe I'll get your name someday. Maybe I won't.
Modern life is filled with too many choices—
                                                                               to know or not? 

Such a big choice about such a small thing. I don't know 
how to move, but right now, I'm here
                                                                 with you.

—by Sarah Dzida (Mar 2023)

Big Sur Photo by Jason Hogan on Unsplash