Deep in the oleanders’ dense thicket, a warbling vireo screams
for a mate, another migrant back from his long
trek from Mexico. He loves the green tango
of poison leaves keeping his slim gray body
safe from Cooper’s hawk, the snelled claws
of our local bobcat, my young dog, part dingo,
who could snatch him on the wing.
I understand his need, not
desperation but the urgency
etched in his DNA driving him to sing,
belting out his singular desire.
Late night going to dawn, I write verse
few will read. Like a leaf basket
hanging from a eucalyptus branch flexible as a guitar string, I am
pushed by the future’s howling mountain wind.