uncovering a boring bird

I look out the window in
my mother's house and
see a brown bird with
a red head and proud red
breast

Smaller than a Robin
indeed, not a Robin

If I were my mother
(which I am, and I am not)
I would investigate

binoculars, dog-eared bird book
kept under the kitchen counter

I would check-mark
the picture of the bird,
satisfied with seeing it again

I am not
(and I am) my mother,
so instead I pick up a pen
and  book,
smaller than I prefer, to write in

I am interrupted
(and  again) and
the poem looses steam

I resist the urge to change this and
instead I stare at the bird

Think about catching it and
kissing it's red breast,
red head

wondering
how many other women
have done the same.