Cool, clear morning. As I lock the car, a fledgling robin tumbles out of a small bush between two parking lots. Its mother keeps herself between us as it stumbles across the pebbly asphalt. She has a bit of worm in her beak. When I move away, the mother closes in, pushes the worm into
its wide-open mouth.
Sitting at my desk, I see my car, the otherwise empty lots, the bush. Two dark little shapes (even the chick!) hop over the low curb into the pine straw.
And I remember last night's dream of my hometown: sidewalks full of people, the soda fountain where my parents met, and the clean street shining in sunlight.
cold evening rain
my toddler daughter dances
flashlight in hand
its wide-open mouth.
Sitting at my desk, I see my car, the otherwise empty lots, the bush. Two dark little shapes (even the chick!) hop over the low curb into the pine straw.
And I remember last night's dream of my hometown: sidewalks full of people, the soda fountain where my parents met, and the clean street shining in sunlight.
cold evening rain
my toddler daughter dances
flashlight in hand
by Richard Straw
Cary, North Carolina
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