In the evening I feel
the fullness and flutter
of a goldfinch in my sternum.
What is precious and delicate,
small enough to fit in the jewel-
box cage of my chest
between clavicle and diaphragm,
a bright flash and flush of feather
and hope, or the memory of it.
I know this bird.
So unlike the red-tailed hawk
still and staring, like a lesson
I have not yet untangled,
or the American crow
slick and serious and sorrowful.
There is air and light, a desire
to flit, a determination to find
to alight on fuchsia coneflowers
to be filled with seed and song
to nourish the emptiness of the body
with the manna of wildflowers.