Habitat

We plan, like archi­tects
to bring the out­doors in,
par­rot like real­tors
the charms of a tree house,
for up on this hill,
bird­song is tan­gi­ble.
We always get
what we want, camouflaged

in our mossy cabin, high
above the thresh­old
of dis­cov­ery. Open sky.
360-degree views. Proximity to water.
Reliable food sources. Plenty
of nest­ing mate­r­ial. Gravel flies
from under the foot of a rabbit

flee­ing a res­i­dent eagle.
Ravens and jays bat­tle
over kib­ble, shit bomb the deck.
They want in,
past win­dow­panes that trick them.
Frenzied. Talons flash­ing, they enter
through a door in the firmament.

I guide them out­side, stunned
at the feel of wing bones.
Banging hearts. A hum­ming­bird goes
still­born in the cup of my hands,
then, buzzers off, leav­ing a tang
in my throat, a ring
of ruby dust on my fin­ger,
incrim­i­nat­ing as pollen.