The sky’s blue eye blinks awareness: okay.
The heron’s paper legs
cut a fine pencil drawing —
how many wing strokes
to complete the picture?
Who who else? The owl!
Below its questions there’s a crash of deer.
Coiled thimbleberry and wind-shredded groundcover
spring — how else could it be?
How else but in a high meadow
from where the sea is a thumb of silver,
and the grasses bleed sapphire and yellow,
and the pink bees bumble through moss.
Does the songbird believe in its tune?
How can it sing and not know a word?
So beautiful: this singing for someone
it doesn’t yet know.
