The Names of Things
I don’t know the names of things,
though I admire poets who do,
Who speak of blue herons and red-tailed hawks,
Of goldenrod and milkweed.
Who know the difference between a maple and an oak.
I don’t know the name of the birds who flew over my head today as I sat along the river.
I’m grateful they let me eavesdrop on their chatter that echoed as it traveled upstream.
I don’t know the name of the fish that leapt from the creek behind the house we rented on vacation.
We stared at the water waiting for the next leap, the way we watched the night sky during that meteor shower, hoping to spy the next shooting star.
I don’t know the name of the constellation that lay still behind them.
I like the two-track I walked along today.
A road without a name.
I suppose the birds brunching in the field were sandhill cranes. Someone once told me they were. That was many seasons ago, when I was also told the cover crop on the field was rye. I suppose such things change with the seasons.
Today, I don’t know the name of the cover crop. For me, it is a green blanket, preparing to keep the field cozy for the winter. A blanket with a name I don’t know.
I don’t know the name of the woman who said hello to me today as I wandered the village, though I remember your smile when she helped us move tables after a charity event.
Nor do I know the name of the guy we met that one time in the beer garden, when we walked out back, desperate to escape the noise of the bar. You shared a cigarette with him, and we shared a private laugh when he talked too much. I still see him sometimes, embarrassed that I don’t know what to call him.
Names elude me.
A small animal rushed into the woods along the farm, heading toward the river. Maybe a field mouse or a squirrel. A large bird watched as it circled overhead, thinking about breakfast. Perhaps it had a name.