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By John I. Blair

There, playing in the water bowl,
Almost invisible in morning light,
A small bird splashes,
Washing its feathers free of dust,

Flushing loose a mite or two,
Cooling off in baking heat,
Drinking its fill from the precious wet,
Making me wonder what it is.

A broadly olive-tinted back,
Muted gold across the breast,
Tiny eyes, blunt tail, short beak,
Jerky movements in the bath Ė

In spite of eager looks
I have no idea of its name;
But though Iíll search my books,
Scan the Internet intently,

Even if I never know
It doesnít matter to the bird;
Clean, its thirst well-slaked,
Off it wings in the dawning day.

©2019 John I. Blair, 9/23/2019

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