Right Like Yellow Along a Banana
The bird on the step is in shadow until
it twitches and suddenly parts of it are lit
a golden brown. Sometimes it's the tail,
sometimes the left half of beak and tail.
The clouds are rolling the wrong direction,
but I'm not going to be the one to say.
I had my usual nightmares last night, but
I'm not having one now, which I cling to
the way the atmosphere grips the earth.
Have you ever paid close enough attention
to the whooshing sound it makes rushing
into a vacuum-packed jar of peanuts?
When I woke this morning I immediately
felt pounds lighter. Upstairs on my side
of the bed now there's an impression
of me, dozens of pounds of meat-weight
pressing down that you can't see, but if
you place your hand there, you'll feel
the coolness of my absence. The bird
whose noise is making the noises
all the other birds do is behind me
in the cottonwoods above my shoulder.
Sunlight's landing on everything now,
my knees, my tea, the grass around me,
and it isn't making any noise as it hits,
not a plink, not a quiet little crush.