day 0: rowan trees to telephone wires to glassy lakes

Ask me six years ago and I would’ve told you--in fact, I sort of did--
that I could stare at the cedar waxwing for ages.
Plumage that tempts me to pet it, painted with oils, poised on a branch, perfect berry in its beak--
what I wanted, and/or what I wanted to be.
I should have known better.
I can’t even see your wings when you’re just sitting there all folded up like that, do you even, like, fly?

Ask me today and I’ll tell you--I’ll tell you now--
the early one wrestling half a discarded sandwich in a bag from the street to the sidewalk, stopping for a moment to stare me down on my commute to work;
the afternoon meeting on the wire above my building, across the street from me, conferring on my protection and how to make sure I don’t get myself into even worse shit this time;
the murder I once saw walking on their own talons down the street in front of my mother’s house.
Trash guardians of the ones at risk on a windy day.
This one’s my protector for these days, spookin’ everything bad from my door, won’t let it darken.
That one, I eventually want them tattooed on my right arm.

Ask me in six more years and I may say--I probably will--
that whenever I need calm and peace,
I will pull that evening reflection to my mind, a lake I’ve never been to,
and a three-note song, so clear, cuts through the wind-down hum of the outside like the glass of the water...
A loon’s call may just be the sound I conjure on those nights when sleep won’t fall easy on me,
when all I need is permission to rest.