The birds have found
the nuts and seeds
dispensed in the
feeder.

They sing a song
of gratitude
The sound is carried away
on a winter wind

You remind me of a quiet
empty jade mailbox.
If you screamed into it there
would be a bloodcurdling echo

dashing down Route 66,
dust flying into the chartreuse sky.

Waltz notes written in pencil
lead, as the new and the old
dance and dangle into the
buzzing fuchsia twilight.

My long brown wings laced with feathers
sweeping the sky’s blue silk cloak.
My talons, like long knives,
pierce the thin clouds.
Yellow eyes see through the brush
brown against green grass
making the hills like a patchwork quilt.
My nest, built upon precipice,
looks into a foggy ravine,
a river of silvery water,
sewn into the valley.

She lies there, in her pink pajamas
on her mattress laid out on the
living room floor.
It’s been there
ever since I’ve known her.
Crawling to the kitchen,
she still has a little bit of energy
to squat down and make kim-chee.
My great-grandmother
named Fourth Disappointment
that hardly talks or walks,
still smiles when I come
to see her.

Many things
caught changing,
trading their life
for an eternity of helpfulness,
feeling alarmed by the common,
not easily pleased
by the sound of shining skies.
Full of mysterious ideas,
slammed into unnecessary environments.
Breathing isn’t easy while under the weight
of gravity.