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When I Don't Know What Kind of Bird I Am

I’m surprised the mild wind that brought me here
could turn so quickly spooky. Kicked-up, horse-like.

Or, when standing still & I sense myself askew,
at a slight angle to the universe, confused

re: the who & what & how. How to openopenopen.
How to harvest flax without degrading the hills.

The violet and low-rolling hills.
It would help to have a basic understanding

of thermodynamics to better parse, for example,
the ins and outs of heat exchange. As in, it’s a cold day

in March, you put your hand in my pocket.
Put your fine, cold hand in my flannel-lined pocket.

It would help if you’d talk a little Brontë, a little Austen
to me while we stroll across the softening fields

to the lambing shed where we’ll kneel down
in our muddy boots and count the curly heads.

-Maya Smith Janson, 2013

On Having Misidentified a Wild Flower

A thrush, because I'd been wrong,
Burst rightly into song
In a world not vague, not lonely,
Not governed by me only.

-Richard Wilbur, 1988