Two of them, bright male
and pale female
ivory-wedge-beaked
saffron-browed
golden-caped.
Passing through, pausing on the lawn
hopping hefty and definite
a window glimpse of twenty seconds.
They’ve been wandering,
heading now north and high
to the thick strong stands of the Rockies:
the spruces, the firs,
the pines and oaks,
the aspen and the maples—
seeds and buds and sap for food,
twigs and roots for nests,
fir needles and lichen for softness,
branches crooked for cradling.
They spent the winter in a roving crowd,
searching for stashes of sunflower seeds
beaks heavy and ready for cracking
tongues nimble for fishing out meat.
They courted quietly
dance without song—
they’ve lost their music, only
burry chirps for vespers.
They will find a tree somewhere north of here
or east of here
if they follow the boxelders
on lawns alongside birdfeeders.
She will build a saucer nest for eggs
perhaps three
pale cloud blue, earth-splotched
two weeks to sit, two weeks to feed.
They will arc somewhere else next year,
following the flow of flock
and the breaking of buds
and the offering of seeds.
They know the wideness of the earth,
how to let the year round and ripen beneath them
and carry them along on its curve.
An avid lover of nature, place, and words, Anne Thomas is studying for a PhD in Plant Sciences at the University of Cambridge. She plans to become a professional ecologist while also writing her way through the world.
