Robin’s Calling
Seth McBride
As I wandered the well-worn path I came across you drinking a stagnant tea from a rocky bowl.
I made my presence known with a curious “hello.” I felt overwhelmed and gracious to receive your acknowledgement,
and I felt that you were growing impatient (yet as I write this a robin chuckles, then a chorus) quickly twisting your beak, fixing
a curious glare on me.
I asked, “What will it take to remember Earth.”
You hopped closer, intrigued.
“What would it take to remember the sanctity of dipping our beaks in the stream?”
You flew across the creak as if inviting me to the shoreline, but you continued to fly along the bank, and I continued to
follow as if I were compelled to move by some “other.” While I traced your flight on foot, two of your family flew after you when
they caught sight of the stray you were leading home.
I finally crossed the creek, jumping across on a dampened sandbar, and as I rounded an animal path, I saw a weak
dam loosely strung across the creek. As I came upon the dam, I heard my name in a low garbled tone.
I threw a glance over my shoulder, but no one was around for miles.
This must’ve been the spot I needed to discover, and all the while I felt as though I were being watched. As I took in the
surroundings though, I felt as though you had brought me into your home. Many of you were bouncing and bathing, singing
and laughing, and carrying on countless conversations.
I felt as though I was home and forever grateful to be welcomed into yours.
“Impatience”
Allie Kohler
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