Listening
Birds listen as much as they sing,
which is why they nest
so near to humans,
so well to mate,
so well to coo, the treeborne
airborne travelers.
It is a female characteristic
to receive, to process, to listen
while the incessant songs
of the males fill the sky.
It is no great coincidence
that Jehovah, verbose
in his doctrines and directives
was a sky god,
and the preponderance
of female deities in history
were mighty in the Earth.
The Earth receives
the lumbering music
and rain of the sky.
If a sky cloud is Tennessee flat
across its mile-long bottom,
with cauliflower bunches popping
like stove corn on the top,
we call that a friendly one,
we say it agrees with us.
But if the same clusters embrace
the earth beneath the cloud,
with wispy hairs that straggle above,
nothing is more dangerous.
These whiskers are ice that carry
a violent water to unload.
They easily clear a gully
like a cord of whips chasing birds
out of a tower, like rapacious bats
seeking blood.
On pleasant days we walk
the countryside
and visit a Mexicali food truck
outside of Winnemucca.
The tongue tacos,
fries, and cob corn
dipped in butter and lard
are dusted in tajin—
a smattering of chili, lime,
coriander, and cumin—
a summer’s sweetness
in every bite.
I measure how good life is
by the smiles
Zooey gives me. She carries
my most precious secrets
like folded lingerie in a basket
while walking past Grandma’s.
The road knows where to turn,
broad and desolate,
with little cover from sudden turns
in the Nevada weather.
They are not all that common
in the desert,
but Zooey tells me
there’s hope in surrender.
The night consumes the golden skies,
slabs of flashing clouds looming
and lumbering
with thunder, waiting.
We are silent.
We are superstitious.
What if every bird from every tower
is listening to us?
