Thursday, March 09, 2023

Poem for Thursday and Queen Anne Waterbirds

State Bird
By Ada Limón

Confession: I did not want to live here,
not among the goldenrod, wild onions,
or the dropseed, not waist high in the barrel-
aged brown corn water, not with the million-
dollar racehorses, or the tightly wound
round hay bales. Not even in the old tobacco
weigh station we live in, with its heavy metal
safe doors that frame our bricked bedroom
like the mouth of a strange beast yawning
to suck us in, each night, like air. I denied it,
this new land. But, love, I’ll concede this:
whatever state you are, I’ll be that state’s bird,
the loud, obvious blur of song people point to
when they wonder where it is you’ve gone.


My Wednesday morning was a lot like (and about as exciting as) my Tuesday morning. At least Paul had his annual checkup at the same place I have mine, and he also stopped to pick up bagels for lunch. I talked to my three good high school friends for a couple of hours afterward, catching up since I was out of town last week. We had a hawk outside bothering the squirrels for a while and our daffodils have perked up despite the chilly weather. 

Thursday is my mother's birthday, but she's dining with my father, so tonight we brought over CPK and Carvel ice cream cake, which we ate before Skyping our kids. Then we came home for The Mandalorian and Women Talking, which is on Amazon Prime for five days so people can see it before the Oscars and is excellent though a tough story to watch -- I don't understand why Claire Foy and Rooney Mara weren't nominated. Water birds in Queen Anne in Seattle: 







2023-02-28 11.45.23

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