Goldfinches ~ Lisa Norris


Motion attracts me: the birds especially—
goldfinches dip and rise—musical

breaths of air push at the trees, boughs
bow and nod to say

happy birthday. Outside, I still celebrate
two dogs I buried under a fossil

from Virginia–trilobites preserved in the rock: bodies
buried, filled in. Truly, I don’t know

how it works, except that it’s miraculous
like the osprey circling without wingbeats,

calling to her fledglings. When I plant a seed,
green comes up, thin as an eyelash:

can you tell it is Spring?—a good season
to be born, I think, though the long dark remains

in my cells: this morning, I recalled
someone’s back turned—a lover’s (or was it Mother’s?)—but then

those bright winged bodies flew across the yard.