It takes a while for the birds
to land, though one or two
blue sentries are always
on the low tumuli of piñon:
scrub-jays sensitive to my morning feet
the creaking door
the crackling of the seed bag or
the soft clank of the bucket’s
handle against the tub

Sound carries here
in sagebrush-juniper
above the valley floor
a whisper half a mile along
our rutted dirt might as well
be whispered in the yurt

and so I fill the feeder knowing
the unknown wild is watching
our Clark’s Nutcracker or the jays
and juncos dropping
from the Sangres in the fall

dropping from the foothills
with the usual messages
about time gone
and smaller days

I tip out empty husks and peanut shells
from the hanging wood and wire
of the little platform

there’s already shuffling deep
in the otherworld of the bough
yet who could tell?
they’re still too liminal for me

ghost birds have started their
lazy, patient circling around my head
weaving a perimeter of sound
Pinyon Jays with their uncanny bleating
and the whistling of Mourning Doves

though all there is to see
is Sis Naajiní on the far horizon
catching the eastern light now
holding up the sky

our white shell mountain
the one initiates climbed
to spend the night in shuddering cold
greeting the early heavens
with an outstretched hand
to feed the gods humanity