She comes to perch on my shoulder,
her trill reduced to a warble
recognizable from other woods, other
days, often unseen, always heard.
The inclination is to shoo her away,
send her flying elsewhere. But then,
she has my sister’s eyes, wears my
brother’s bright orange vest. My
father would have known how to
answer her call. My mother would
have fed her. My son would have
tried to follow her from tree to tree.
She won’t be held or caught. You
can’t stay forever, I tell her. But
you can rest here today. Try it
again—we’ll whistle together.
