I saw them from my seat at the table,
through the glass that barely holds in morning -
the bird bath resting in the yard's far corner,
half in light, half forgotten by it.
A wren came first,
light as the thought you meant to speak
but let go of.
She moved like a thing
accustomed to not being noticed.
Still, she drank,
and flicked water from her wings
as though to erase a small worry.
Then the mourning dove -
gray in that way that absorbs
rather than reflects.
She stepped carefully,
not timid, but practiced in caution.
She didn't drink right away,
only stood there,
as if listening to something
beneath the surface of the water.
The robin arrived last,
not proud, but sure,
as if he'd been there before
and knew the rules had not changed.
He washed without rush,
sending small ripples out -
nothing dramatic,
just enough to make the light waver.
For a while they shared that shallow dish,
without quarrel,
without fear.
And for reasons I don’t fully know,
I sat still,
held by the quiet fact of them -
not what they meant,
but that they were there together
at all.
GBS
2025
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