Robins are a nasty bird.
When I look at one up close—all scraggly
and fluster hoppy—I often find
myself saying, “Robin, you’re gross.”
I say it in a cute little voice, like a prank
or an admission of fetish.
But I’m dead fucking serious.

Anyway, I doubt they hear me.
Usually this is through a window or
inside a car. And besides, obviously,
they don’t speak English.

There were mated cardinals in the garden
of my last home. I like saying
“mated cardinals” because it sounds
like I know what I’m talking about.
But, I mean one was Crayola red
and one was demurely beiged out—like
a cardinal on sepia filter—and they
flitted around together, especially
on Friday and Saturday nights.

Here, at my new home, I just saw a raven
perch literally in the ONE dead tree
across the back alley. Classic. I grabbed
a pen.

Now, the evening light is beginning
and I’m watching the swallows swoop—
the faintest skim coat of mountains
on the distant horizon.

                                          Yes, that’s right. I’m
just sitting here watching the swallows as I
swallow. It doesn’t go any further.
Not everything has to.