If I’d not glanced out the window at just that moment,
I would have missed the flash of blue against blue.
I wouldn’t have seen it dart onto a crabapple branch
and then light on the backboard behind the net,
unmistakable in its orange vest.
I scooped up my camera and fiddled with the focus
but snapped just as it lifted off,
so I have no proof.
I thought I saw it poke its head into the door
where the sparrows took up housekeeping.
Sparrows like these pecked “my” baby bluebirds to death.
Mr. Google said so.
Fly, little bluebird. Fly!
and they’ll have no love for you.
I’d glanced out the window at just the right moment
that same week of the killings and saw a kestrel
clinging to the door frame of the sparrow’s house.
I ran outside to chase it away,
but not until after I snapped a picture,
so I’d have proof.
I saved sparrows from certain death
so they could kill more bluebirds.
Should I have let that kestrel have its lunch?
Maybe I shouldn’t have interfered.
Maybe I shouldn’t have tried to play God.
I haven’t seen a bluebird in our yard since that day
until today, and today I’m wondering for the first time…
What if all this time I’ve accused the wrong bird?
But I have no proof.
This summer I’ve been taking a workshop through Tweetspeak Poetry called “Becoming Mindful in Place. This is a reflection from our writing assignment on transcendence.
And by the way, last night when I ran out back to capture the rising moon, I nearly stepped on this little dude.
So I have proof.
In the stillness,