In the bird sanctuary

we point to beautiful things 
as if being a parent requires it. 
 
There, the milkweed prairie grass on the coast of Chicago,
two chipmunks sprint across footpaths.
 
Our voices turn to whisper as we step close to a birder,
binoculars, large zoomed camera lens steady on a distant
 
red-winged blackbird twilling from a cottonwood branch.
We label azaleas along with chickadees, sand dunes
 
and native shrubs—nannyberry and sumac.
In Boulder yesterday, protesters were set on fire 
 
and the famished arms of children across the world 
held out their bowls to emptiness, again. 
 
We tell the children to listen outside of themselves
to pause their storytelling and focus on sound: wind and waves 
 
of Lake Michigan crash into boulders that line the shore.
And for each daily tragedy in the news
 
I consider each simple, horrific word, what I won’t yet say 
to my children. We cling, the way promises follow our young.