At Sixty
by Ann E. Michael

You’d think I’d tire of watching the white-tails,
which seldom surprise and whose dull coats
do little to enliven the long-yellowed meadow,
or the winter birds, always similar: two juncos,
chickadee, sparrow, bright interference of cardinal,
jays, mauve-gray dove, nothing novel here,
nothing to report. When I lived in cities, what
stirred me? Neither pigeons nor starlings. Perhaps
gulls’ raw plaintive rasps over the harbor or the
overwhelming flocks of fellow human beings,
yet I grew tired of observing them: we were all
so alike beneath the plumage, scrabbling for
a living. When I was younger, urban, striving,
sameness galled. I appreciate it now.
I care less about the differences.



 

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