Being Bird-Blooded

Ready said the night. The cold

clipped, pinged—like silver spoons

at a campfire. In the cornfield

by the tracks the toothless crones—

crows—whisk and stir.

Where does the air get that blue-black

color? The night is like a lit bell hole

or a beehive humming underwater,

like the stars, all talk and powder.

Then the raisin-eyed owl pops

and lifts, stuffing his craw with mice.

I have understood snow

as a set of diamonds over hay,

as the pavement of a city

where the people are still, all

sleeping. In the Orient,

in pails of deep amber, someone

who belonged to me once lies quiet.

Awake and above dreams, listening

for that heart, I eat my piece

of moon and wail, like the broken

hawks. Down the last road on the hill

between the barn and the falling-down

schoolhouse, newts wander

in wet dirt. Stay by the pond,

stay by birches turning silver

with fog. Don’t forget the soup

we made together, out of nothing

but water. We watched the kind

green monster and the silly ass

with the pot held between us.

Out in the night sky, the bats

are taking up post, skating.

They pivot, tacking their kites

knit with moth wings. At the end

of August I stacked your silence

of sadness, the appetite

stiffens. Nitpick. In a new voice,

I start the heron. Ruffled grouse

drum in the hemlocks. Chickadees

pilfer crack-shelled almonds

and their nests grow damp.

Abandonment. We feel like

forgetting ourselves. Here,

the birds know. In late autumn

they gather by family and farm

their way south, making arcs,

craning necks, leaving the old year

in the tooth of the plow.

Winter comes last. The birds

sing before it.