Perhaps having lived more that half a life, when I lose my hair I should stand on the steps out back by the dogwood and sassafras, letting the silver strands slip through my fingers to be taken by a breeze; hair that once was glossed like a newly combed chestnut mare, now hair that I hate I even hate to lose but let the birds make nests of it, the hatchlings dry and kept by a few strands.
Maybe the neatly woven cup that cradles a clutch of small white eggs sprinkled with brown so near to where I stand, well apart from the urban pulse, lends me improbable comfort, a reason to pause, as I scan the landscape of tree and sky searching for a flash of wing, a cinnamon colored breast striped with rose, waiting for the evening's quiet to be gently filled with an elegant assembly of silvery notes.
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