Janna King

ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF MY MOTHER’S DEATH

You taught me bird calls on chill autumn days.

“Peter, Peter, Peter,” says the Tufted Titmouse,

his compact gray body jumping from branch to branch.

At night, the Great Horned Owl asks: “Are you awake?

Me, toooo.”

Without destination, we hiked over rocks

and crunching orange leaves, listening

for the call that would reveal our neighbors.

You pointed out to me a Pileated Woodpecker—

so large against a tree—black and white, with red hat.

My small hand rested in your big one, proud

of our discovery, something all ours.

Now from my own kitchen window,

I watch the birds at my feeders, missing your hand.