The Elegant Trogon
The South American trogon
is a gentle bird with weak legs
and soft colorful feathers
that nibbles holes in trees
to make its nest. One flew
into my dream and dropped
a golden tooth into my supinate
hand, then perched croaking
on a twig. It appeared
to be wearing spectacles.
Special effects, said a Spadefoot,
digging calmly as a scholar
of the Era of Good Feelings.
I felt a rictus travel across
my face, arriving at my mouth
in the form of an effortful
grimace. Dawn was carrying
something quantum in its oral
cavity and purring. I have
a secret pigeon in my heart.
I keep it in a cage composed
of object lessons and feed it
moral law. Usually every morning
it stirs and wakes me with
its lonely cooing and together
we wander into a sort of
guilty state of already feeling
as if we are at loggerheads
with the turtle of doing what
we ought to do. Now I am
fully awake. Still I feel that golden
lodestone burning in my palm.
Which I plan on keeping locked.
To a Predator
This morning I woke up early and saw
a fox. It was leaping and dragging its glorious
red and white tail behind it across
the road. It held a grasshopper in its mouth,
which it dropped when it saw the small
carcass of a young javelina. Last night
I was woken by their hairless rooting through
a field of cactus in moonlight. They all
stood together, ears rotated forward into
the breeze, protecting the single mother
protecting a pair of young. Their
mustachioed labium superius oris i.e.
upper lip protects a gentle tusk
the color of greywater. I almost sympathize
with their corporate need to snuffle
and roam in packs until dawn returns them
to hollows they made in the ground.
But my sleep does not. Thus I shone
a very powerful flashlight into their midst
and watched them scramble across
the highway, dispersing. Thus I walked
out into this morning, wearing a shirt
the color of a dandelion, whistling
an uncertain tune about the mild unequal
life I would like to know better of a rich
acquaintance in the Mexican city of Guadalajara.