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?