Fern shadows play over
our feet as we move along the trail.

My son pauses to raise his binoculars
every few feet calling out names of birds,

chattering excitedly about their actions.
I follow him listening, soaking in

our whispered peace, slow pace,
and pops of dappled light.

Thirteen years I’ve been his mother.
Thirteen years I’ve learned and relearned

what that means.
Just as we turn to head uphill,

wind and feathers brush my arm,
high-pitched trills surround us, and

I turn to see amazement in his eyes as
he motions me to remain silent, but

keep walking and we approach the bushes
where a handful of Kentucky Warblers

engage in an ongoing disagreement.
Bryum whispers, “They must be fighting

over a female,” as we stand on the hillside
amid darting yellow feathers

trying to follow their movements
back and forth, jostling limbs and shaking leaves.

Then, at once, they are gone.