What if?

What if?

What if the birds
put the word out
that three of the past five
summers
have been different
around here?

Nests burned
fledglings perished
and cries from fleeing fauna
and flaming flora
left indelible impressions
on avian brains.

So they put the word out.

To those who migrate:
don’t return. Find another, safer place to summer.
To natives:
move on. It’s impossible to breathe here in the smoke.

What if bossy, noisy stellar jays stopped coming?
What if robins no longer heralded spring?
What if the red feeders we hang in front of our windows
became barren decorations
that we took down
washed
and put away?

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I’m a writer, reader, photographer, and gardener. I thought by now I’d have things figured out, but I keep coming up with more questions. I think that’s okay. I’m here most mornings pondering ordinary things.
1 comment
  1. Very movingly expressed. What if, indeed …

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