She Could Have Been Me with Feathers

In Olympic Park, Washington, gray jays perched in the trees, swooped near, tickling our ears with the sound of their wings.

One mother bird didn’t join the flight but watched two of her brood act out their adolescent attitudes.

Out on a limb they fought, nipped, snipped, shoved and said bad bird words their tongues shrieking pink.

The irate mother flapped in between them bopped them such a scold they hushed dropped to the ground— feathers ruffled, each in a silent sibling snit.

Then a third brat lit and it was bad manners, bad language all over again.

This time, Mama took a slow flight to a low post, turned her face in a new direction.

Her eyes glazed; she seemed to be in a daydream where she had no children, never planned to and the raucous to do behind her was not her problem.

A brief time out.

An oval of restful solitude.

I felt a bond, a recognition for I too did that, sometimes.