by Wilda Morris
You say I am a red-winged blackbird,
content for months at the edge of a marsh
until my feathers flutter and I need to ride the wind,
nest in a new place awhile, and you are a meadowlark
perched on a Kansas fencepost singing an intricate repertoire,
happy not to migrate too far from home.
I say you are a barn owl adjusted to suburban life,
your heart-shaped face a fountain of love
but I am a peregrine falcon who could live
by the wetlands, seashore, grassland, forest or city,
a hunter always searching for something more.
We agree we are both ducks. You, a dabbling duck,
forage in the shallows of television, but then you are a diver,
plunging deep for sustenance from history, theology, biography.
I dabble in the shoals of easy Sudoku and crossword puzzles,
wade into astronomy and geology to see what tidbits I can digest.
I dive deeply into history, theology and biography
and meet you there.
Our inner ducks brought us together. Internal songbirds
and raptors keep our love lively, intriguing.