The Names of Things
I don’t know the names of things,
though I admire poets who do,
Who speak of blue heron and red-tailed hawks,
Of goldenrod and milkweed,
who know the difference between maple and oak.
I don’t know the name of the birds flying over the river today.
I eavesdrop on their gossip as it echoes upstream.
I don’t know the name of the fish that leapt from the creek behind that house we rented once.
We stared at the water waiting for the next leap the way we watched the night sky during a meteor shower, not daring to blink for fear of missing the shooting stars.
I don’t know the name of the constellation that lay still behind them.
I like this two-track along the farm.
A road without a name.
I suppose the birds brunching in the field are 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, the cover crop is only a green blanket keeping the field cozy for 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 had 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.
The farm is quiet and the autumn leaves rustle in the trees.
Ahead of me, a small animal rushes into the woods, heading toward the river. Maybe a field mouse or a squirrel. A large bird watches as it circles overhead, thinking about breakfast. Perhaps it has a name.