After the Weeping
from Out With Lanterns
The morning I cry and say everything, the cowbird sings from the telephone wire. I hate cowbirds, those absent parents, brood parasites who drop eggs in robin, finch, bluebird nests, then take off. I was crying about mothering, how it encompassed me, buoyed me, and now they’ve flown and and I stare at trees wondering what to do now. What do I do now? It’s easy to feel I’ve spent years doing nothing on these empty, quiet days. When the robin is alone again, what is she to do but spy the cowbird as he adventures out in the vast sky, while she still sits nest-bound, having nurtured his babies so well that they were strong enough to fly, to leave her too. The work is remembering she has wings.




I'd pay for that last line! Wonderful, Julie.
"the work is remembering she has wings" xo