Oriole

A morning cool and blue

and the oriole orange

and black-winged

sings unseen beside the stream.

The child in the hand-me-down spring coat

holds fast the precious coin in her pocket

and decides:

there is a small book

on the shelf

behind the cash register

at the five-and-dime

a glossy book of birds.

She will learn their names

answer their calls

there is no plan yet

no other road than the one

she walks every day to school.

She doesn’t know that morning

that songbirds migrate

that every spring a new nest

must be built

days have not yet become weeks

nor months become years.

She sees its orange and black feathers

moving among the roadside branches

so real are the colors

she can’t wait to tell someone.