Night Bird

Sometimes, in summer
I listen for the nightbirds, wait quiet before the redwoods and the young spring rosemary.
But the Jungle speaks not here, in Muir's shade,
only frogs in swan-song and the creek's whisper.
Here is fresh rain.

Together, where the nightbirds sing, mew mew or
ook ook ook, we harvested music from words
and patterns in a bowl of wax.
In lowlight his eyes flickered jealous,
ribcage to ribcage, his heart was not open like mine.

Many songs later we put the babies in their nests and made our own of stars
and a lullaby silence.

Make what you will of poems and songs,
speak them softly so as not to wake the neighbors.
Over a great sea, fed by rains and happy-tears, I wait like the nightbird
poised with breast uplifted to deliver the day's final call,
and to dive into the shade where one source meets the other.