Flight Call

A still day in early August.
I’m cool in the shade of an old maple
on a good bench to sit for birds.

Chickadees are chatting
but they can’t hold my interest.
Spring is over. All the singing

for territory, for a mate, for your brood

is done, but I don’t want to leave.

Nowhere will ease the anniversary.

A careening train of boys on bikes
comes skidding down the path.
A junco bolts.

The boys are breaking rules
but they easily avoid hitting me

and go on as if I'm not here.

If they were a year or two older,
I’m sure I would have felt again
that familiar fever spike of fury.

I wait the minutes for the birds to calm
and try to recall which have a flight call.
I missed Jack's.

I am still angry a week later.
Just ask her who lives with me
how I endure without his song.