I had given up on spring
when you called me to the
kitchen window to show me
the orioles in the quince bush,
like small brilliant suns -
buoyant and cheerful.
Watching them,
I tried not to think
about the mountain birds,
with their dark shiny eyes
like tiny glass marbles,
and their somber evening calls
heard from clear across the river –
where they roosted shadowy
in the branches of the redbud,
some missing parts of their
hind wings or tails,
proving that life is hard
in the upper Alleghenies.
Even on this dismal,
cool and rainy spring morning,
I’ll not think about the cold
that got inside of me there –
For now,
I’ll take pleasure in
our delight of the orioles,
so busy with the quince blossoms,
they hardly notice
our smiling faces at the window -
or our love for them that leaps
and bounds from somewhere deep.
