I watch the birds pick at seeds I spread on the rocky soil,
so certain, precise, never chipping a beak.
Watching my child, all hands, feet, ungainly head,
I am taken by the imprecision,
the lack of focus on where the beak should strike.
I have spent my life among the rocks
preparing them, arranging them, seeding them.
Then my awkward child raises his uncertain gaze,
sees the moon
full of dust and reflections.