Rare Sighting

There are so many birds this year,
my husband says, as if this is his first time
out in the world with his eyes open.
He tries every year with tomatoes.
I gave up when the kids were still small.
He nods his head toward a robin sized bird,
gray and quick—what’s that one?
A catbird, I say and know he doesn’t quite believe me.
The bird perches on the brown paper edge
of the yard waste bag—almost manages it.
He’s not afraid, my husband says.
He expects they are rare—
and I don’t say darling, you need
to get out more, or even, dearest, you should walk
with me an evening or two—
you do not always have to be so efficient
or alone. I could show you, I could name
some few familiar things: the company I’ve kept
while the boys have been growing
and you’ve been striving. Here
is the catbird, a mimic, he sits, tail down,
shoulders slightly hunched, wings
dangling a bit like the arms of someone
who doesn’t know what he’s looking at—
watching, and wanting, too, to know.