A Whole Morning

Almost two months ago
Near the end of winter

I spent a whole morning
Beside an empty road

Watching black-headed juncos
Forage in old snow

While I did as close to nothing
As any old human body can

Head to toe in warm clothes
Just a lump in a chair in the sun

Which would have been complete
Contentment itself but even then

I tried to attend to all of the flock’s noises
All those abrupt whooshes and liquid trills

Imagining a highly unlikely exam in which
Someday I would prove I could recognize

And name—foraging only in memory—
The exact species calling from out of sight

Tell me if I could pass that test
If I dreamed of bird songs tonight