My daughter sees a red bird outside the car window

on the way to school. Bright, she says, like an apple

or stop sign, with black on the wings, a vibrant beak.

Not one she's ever seen before. Is it possible,

she asks, that it's a new species, undiscovered? 

There are still things scientists haven't found, I tell her, which

of course is not exactly a lie. A new species of soft coral

was found just this month off the coast six hours south.

Her bird was probably just a cardinal, but who am I

to say it? What she wants, I think, is less to find

something and more to be remembered. Me too, I could

tell her. Lately the stress is just too much: the hundred little jobs

I don't have time to complete at work, and the unending career

of children, husband, house. In this small place when I want

to write, there's no room where I can close the door

for quiet, no writing time that can't be interrupted

with a what's the plan for dinner? or can you help me

finish my homework? I tell my husband I think I'm just lonely

lately but it'll pass. I have to stop lying to people who matter.

You could work your whole life and still have

nothing to show for it. I tell my daughter

her bird sounds beautiful but my favorite

is the common grackle, a small dart of a bird

that just looks like a muddied crow until the sun

reveals the iridescent feathers on its head, oil slick

purples and teals and golds, an ugly peck

of animal except for what the light 

does to it, what I'd like it to do to me:

turn me into a saint for that small feathered thump of breath, 

of the truth I that can give, of unknown birds.