Prose Poem No. 19

In the mornings, on the weekdays, I sit on the sofa and watch the bluejays. Their color doesn’t blend well with dirt, rock, and brush—but at least for the robin, its color does. I hear the birds more often than I see them, see them more often than I know them: which is the one with a black body and navy crown? I can’t quite tell the difference between crows and ravens. But on another subject, I think about this upcoming summer of study. Summer of research, of learning as much as can be gathered about the rarest butterfly in the world. That’s right: I’m to work with the rarest butterfly in the world—catching, releasing, egg-rearing, observing instar one through three eating. I don’t know where that work will take me (in my line of work, I never truly do), so for now, I content myself, not with waiting, but with watching: the robin spotted the bluejay in the tree and is now retaliating. 

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