On the margins of my walk small birds excite my dog. It’s like she just now registered their existence. Her exuberance at their presence seems lodged as a half-formed instinctual memory. Today she found a dead mouse–tossed it, rolled on it, and ran from me holding it gently in her mouth. The garden had been generous in ways she had never imagined. Nearby the milkweed stood tall, a weedy sentry to our antics.
On winter’s margin, see the small birds now
With half-forged memories come flocking home
To gardens famous for their charity.
The green globe’s broken; vines like tangled veins
Hang at the entrance to the silent wood.
— Mary Oliver, from On Winter’s Margin
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