he sees one on the branch of his oak,
the other on his picket fence
eight decades he's heard names
of these creatures
one that makes sad songs (though not
a song bird...)
the other known by its color
(not red robin...)
he opens the door and walks
toward them
as if removing distance will erase years
which purloined their names
they fly off, so many eons ahead of his species
which now lives long enough to forget its past
a breed of ape which worships words, and
dreads the loss of them
the mourning dove and cardinal need no
symbols to know to flee this beast
the mere sight of him evokes the
wisdom of the ages in them
wings flap, currents abide, they glide to
another spot to roost
while the old man curses himself for
unknowing their names--cursing and cursed
it seems, are not part of what is forgotten