I keep a Wood Thrush in my purse;
an embroidered patch,
the size of two quarters,
affixed to a worn ID card.
My little supporter
of migratory life.

There’s no doubt I heard Wood Thrush
as a kid in Maine when
waiting for the dawn school bus.
High, clear notes with a raspy
fringe.

But I didn’t hear them,
not really,
not truly,
until birds flew into my adult life –
curiosity on the wing.

Now I know,
these tiny brown and white thrushes
spend winters with me in Florida,
before flying north
for a summer of
nest building and insect catching and baby raising.

Of course,
my family still in Maine
can listen,
early spring mornings,
to the same birds I so recently
missed.

I keep a Wood Thrush in my purse,
and its form in my eye
and its song in my mind.

A feathered memory,
on the move.