I saw you once, in the mesquite thriving over the leach field.
Pale gray bellied bird, lemon cream face,
antique red patches over your wing muscles,
charcoal shadow for your eyes
made to match your beak and legs
your toes obscured by a spray of leaves,
chestnut shoulder patches,
gray upperparts, gray wings.
I carve lines in wax.
You, maximalist-- gather thousands of small lines for a nest.
I represent existence w/ as few as two,
a yellow ark as celestial body a red twig for you.
We are both drawn to replicate the shape of the moon.
You roost from a sphere w/ a little round entry open to the breeze,
gather feathers and fur to insulate the impending brood.
I gather bees confused by perfume from molten hives.
You call, I respond
the last of your species, old world bird.
I watch your nest in the palo verde wild w/ yellow flowers
from my narrow rectangle of a bedroom window.
I never see you there or hanging upside down
to glean insects.
I know how you like to.