Bob Lucky

Sing to Me, Bird

and forgive me for not recognizing you. Species, subspecies, vernacular tag, all a blank to me now. After the naming is the un-naming. Slowly the pines and pecans and oaks and birches become generic forests, a place of light and shade, and memory goes deep into the woods to hibernate, or perhaps to die in a dream graveyard. Sing to me, Bird. I’ll whistle that tune all day for the rest of my life to remind myself to remember not to forget.

along the bank of the river the river