Hummingbirds Arrive without Reservations

In April the hummingbird people
begin to arrive and before they've unpacked
or picked out a campsite
they come to find me
in the field
on the road
they even peer in
at the bathroom window
to let me know:
they've arrived. Time to fish out the feeder
and crank out the sugar water
yesterday.

May is the sound of hummingbirds
throbbing like angry fairies
in mid-air space
facing off against each other
and anyone else
vibrant colors flashing
and a blur of wings.

You found half a tiny while eggshell,
carried it home on your open palm,
laid it in the cup of a purple sparkly geode
on our altar to the spring.

Grace

First dog person I have ever loved,
when you ripped open my
trusting friend the goat
I surprised myself
by not killing you
instead I found a small lump
of something smaller than retaliation
or Old West justice
deep inside,
something of cold logic
coated in grace
that opened up
furious as a desert bloom
with a scent that permeated my brain
while gently whispering,
"This dog gave up everything he knew to be your friend.
We do not kill our friends for their weaknesses,
we help them. Help him."

So daily now
my remedial friend testing continues
as I navigate the complexities of
holding you close enough to keep you safe
from your missing impulse control switch
and being delighted as you do all the things
I ask enthusiastically,
as though your world, shrunk of necessity
to the length of your leash
is your oyster and I
- your jailer and the judge who nearly ordered
your execution-
remain your pearl.

View from the Night Garden, where the moonshadows grow

From here
you can see so far into the Milky Way
it feels as though we are standing inside it,
that snaking and eddying river of stars.
Which we are.
How easy it is
in the dizziness
to recall being told that we are built of stardust:
particles of the river
stuck together in 6.5 billion different ways
and somehow
lit from within this time.

Down the Rabbit Hole

Hurtling toward old age with blinding speed
and an auspicious lack of grace
I grasp at moments as they dance by,
determined to break the inevitability of my fall.
There goes the moment in which you were a toddler,
and without you I would have been
the loneliest person on earth.
There goes the moment we caught chickens together
and another one where I read aloud to you in the hammock
in the dappled summer sun.
Here is us picking apples in the autumn rain.
Here is us lifting boxes of produce from the truck to the dock
and from the dock into the boat.
Here are a thousand crossings of the Salish Sea
with the salt spray sticky on my face.
I knock them all which-way
in my frenzied haste -
there must be something with more cushion to it,
something with some anti-lock brakes
to control the spin -
Ah! Here it is!
You take my hand
and the free-fall grinds into a retard
so slow I cannot determine the movement,
as I focus on your smile. Your eyes.
This now.