Right in front of the birdbath
in the front yard of my mother’s house,
the old concrete bowl still firmly

attached to its pedestal with a
now-detached little bird that rests
on its side. I refill the birdbath,

as my father did, as my mother did,
as my sister and brother-in-law have,
when I hand water the geraniums

under the kitchen window, when I turn
to squirt the towering azaleas that my
mother planted nearly sixty years ago.

Peter—the next door neighbor who
transitioned not long ago into what
we hope is his next incarnation—

told my mother that deer bedded
down at night in the thicket at the
bottom of their adjoining back yards.

And more than once, hose in hand,
I’ve stopped watering as a pair of does
has crossed the wide expanse

of lawn, in transit to the next place,
wherever that might be.
My sister and brother-in-law saw

the buck yesterday, stately and
watchful, in the front yard. They
stopped the car before pulling

into the driveway, took photos
as he stared at them. Is he
a neighbor? A spirit guide?

The gift of a wild life to remind
us of our own wild lives? Here’s
to the temporary ones that we

cherish all the more for their
here-and-gone-ness, which offer
us such opportunities for wonder,

moments of unexpected beauty,
before disappearing into
the who knows where.