Morning Talk

—for Melissa L. Whiteman “Hi, guy,” said I to a robin perched on a pole in the middle of the garden. Pink and yellow firecracker zinnias, rough green leaves of broccoli, and deep red tomatoes on dying stems frame his still presence. “I’ve heard you’re not THE REAL ROBIN. Bird watchers have agreed,” I said. “ THE REAL ROBIN lives in England. They claim your are misnamed and that we ought to call you ‘a red-breasted thrush’ because you are indigenous.” He fluffed up. “Am I not Jis ko ko?” he cried, “that persistent warrior who carries warmth northward every spring?” He seemed so young, his red belly a bit light and his wings, still faded brown. He watched me untangling the hose to water squash. “Look who’s talking!” he chirruped. “Your people didn’t come from Europe or even India. The turtles say you’re a relative to red clay on this great island.” Drops of crystal water sparkled on the squash. “Indigenous!” he teased as he flew by.