Poetry/Fiction

Wood Thrush – A Poem

May 20, 2026 by Erika Zambello No Comments
close up of a Wood Thrush

I keep a Wood Thrush in my purse;
an embroidered patch,
the size of two quarters,
affixed to a worn ID card.
My little supporter
of migratory life.

There’s no doubt I heard Wood Thrush
as a kid in Maine when
waiting for the dawn school bus.
High, clear notes with a raspy
fringe.

But I didn’t hear them,
not really,
not truly,
until birds flew into my adult life –
curiosity on the wing.


Now I know,
these tiny brown and white thrushes
spend winters with me in Florida,
before flying north
for a summer of
nest building and insect catching and baby raising.


Of course,
my family still in Maine
can listen,
early spring mornings,
to the same birds I so recently
missed.

I keep a Wood Thrush in my purse,
and its form in my eye
and its song in my mind.


A feathered memory,
on the move.

Written by Erika Zambello
Erika is a writer, artist, and communications specialist living and birding in North Florida. Growing up in Maine, she spent summers swimming in chilly Atlantic Ocean waters, hiking fir-covered mountains, and rock-hopping within clear-running streams filled with trout. Quickly falling in love with the natural world, she has been hooked on outdoor exploration ever since. She has written for BirdWatching Daily, National Geographic Adventure, National Parks Traveler, the Maine Sportsman, the Florida Sportsman, and more.