The morning my sisters phoned me
told me she’d gone, I went
up and taught my class
—last of the week
    she’d have wanted me to—
As I went to lock my bike
I heard a warbler and
there it was, yellow
on its branch as nothing else
and I thought of her
                          —naturally—
her bright little soul
perched in a tree.
Easy to imagine.

Three years later on her birthday
I walk with my family, granddaughters
looping the path along the river,
new growth full of every bird,
yellow warblers on branches enough
to spot easily, show the girls
the catbird, towhee, song
sparrow, she loved them all,
loved them for being
birds. Maybe a soul in a tree,
but mainly birds.

Badger

We didn’t hate it
Weren’t going to eat it
make its hide into mitts
or moccasins
 
it was strange to us
             dangerous
if cornered, so told
 
much bigger than a gopher
the gun we stole much bigger
than what we used
on gophers, the point
now we had the gun
kill something big
 
But it didn’t come out
of its hole, obey
expectations
 
I aimed
at a fence post, the itch
to kill blew
me into the ditch
blew out your hearing
the whole way home
 
shouting at you how
to un-steal your father’s gun

 © William Robertson
Saskatoon, Saskatchewan