We plan like architects to bring the outdoors in, parrot like realtors the charms of a tree house, for up on this hill, birdsong
is tangible. We always get what we want, camouflaged in our mossy cabin, high above the threshold
of discovery. Open sky. 360-degree view. Proximity to water. Reliable food sources. Plenty of nesting material. Gravel flies
from under the foot of a rabbit fleeing a resident eagle. Ravens and stellar jays battle over kibble, shit bomb the deck.
They want in. Past the windowpanes that trick them. Frenzied. Talons flashing, they enter through a door in the firmament.
I guide them outside, stunned at the feel of wing bones. Banging hearts. A hummingbird goes stillborn in the cup of my hands,
then, buzzers off, leaving a tang in my throat, a ring of ruby dust on my finger, incriminating as pollen.