I had thought
the gray, overcast morning
would grant me solitude
in the field.
But I forgot
how short the season is,
the strawberries being
generous but fleeting —
like a swarm of gnats that
skirts their course as humans approach.
And I forgot
how early the young ones rise:
they’ve been up for hours already.
They’re past second breakfast
and have burned through screen time.
And they’re all here with me
in the warming field.
Asking is this one ripe
and being told
no not the white tipped ones
And being called to over and over
Nina. Nina. Nina come here!
The incessant voice of a mother bird trying to
push the little ones deeper into the nest
on fledging day.