I usually get it wrong, looking them up on my own.

I miss crucial features: the bar across the shoulder,

A blush on the cheeks, a curved bill, not straight—

Or is it a beak? What’s the difference? I don’t even know.

I had a neighbor, a repository of such details,

But she moved into town and I didn’t get her

New number. I know where she works, though.

I’ll stop by and say, “What’s that bird…?”

She always knows. The timing is not random. There’s a causal

relationship, she explains, between arrivals and departures. She

herself left our rural stretch of high plain to be closer to the hospital.

Her mother was fragile, and then her husband lost his stomach to cancer.

This morning, I heard geese, blackbirds, chickadees and cranes.

I saw a new bird, whiter than spring snow, a few black markings.

I checked my guide book and seized on the McKay’s Bunting,

But no. The map said they live in Alaska, only in Alaska.

Years ago, we left our home here, driven away by locals who

Made it clear we were still newcomers after fifteen years, but

We missed the sun and sky, and all those birds, who didn’t,

In fact, care what we called them. We have since returned.

Those who stray beyond their normal range are called

Accidentals. They take a wrong migratory turn or blow in

On a storm. Sometimes they hitch a ride—we drove a U-Haul.

Depending on your frame of reference, we are all accidental

On this land. Show me the map that says I don’t belong.