A new housing development flows down the hill

      to the lake, only one lowly field remaining,

            a reminder of the tangle of honeysuckle

                       

 where birds tucked away their secret nests,

      where wild grasses concealed pathways

            for small animals, and an ancient apple tree

 

lowered its branches for the munching

      pleasure of passing deer. On this clear,

            middle-of-April day, I walk the remnant

 

of field, startle a bird from a tuft of tall grass.

      My heart leaps at the flash of blue, the flush

            of rose on breast, and I see that, still

 

            the bluebird comes

 

This poem first appeared in Wisconsin People & Ideas (Spring 2007).

Used here with the author’s permission.