Birdwatching

Now I’m a person who can spot a nuthatch, point to grosbeaks, have taught
myself the clowning chip of juncos at the window. Know a raven from a crow
and adore both. I owe that love to Arkansas. To think I never gawked
at life with wings before, had taken flocks for granted, and even thought

that birds were pesky. I wouldn’t let myself be charmed. I call home now
and recount grackles unsettling from fields, cowbirds inspecting how I walked
from the store. There’s flattery in scores of something watching, to have caught
their gaze. There’s a reason to survive. My doomscroll of news gets fought

off by caws and trills wary of my spiraling most days. A speckled hawk
and cardinal tell me what feathers think of drag bans. Last week I brought
my love to see confetti-specks of eagles glide, forgot to speak of feeling low.
The urge to peck flies from my wrists. And now I know I ought

to live with my eyes peeled for flight: grinning and eager, ready to talk
about the wonder I must stick around to see: to not feel sorry for it, no.

Read more from Issue 21.2.