“A Wind’s Weight” and Two Poems

A Wind’s Weight

 Now I understand things I was told
 were not to be understood, and am no
 better for it than gnats cartwheeling above
 thumb-thick gashes in the fawn’s haunches.
 
 Creek dry, stones flaunt. Some stones.
 Others wish to complete their dig back
 to a subterranean palace, and I get that,
 today, with the wind carrying the weight
 
 of carcass god knows how far. I sharpen 
 this blade. I step to that wind. 


 Black Oil Sunflower Seed
 
 Red and blue 
 dots above snow
 birds tuck wings 
 
           against wind 
           and dip for seeds
 fallen from the feeder. How much
 
 of summer do they miss 
 when splitting shells 
 and what prophesy is proved
 
 when they swallow whole —
 
 
 
 I want to write something soft
 not like a pillow 
 
 but like the hands that sew letters
 for a name on its case. Instead
 
           I stare at the wing prints of a bird
 who’s mistaken glass for air
 despite 
           the suncatcher I’ve placed
 
 specifically to avoid this 
 
 its mouth wide, stunned, and me
 with a saucer of water 
 
 I can’t put close enough to matter.
 

Against The Wind
 
 Small as deer ticks sequestered in ear hair
 undiscovered through November, 
 as blood in dimples of wedding bands
 sitting on bathroom sinks. How the wind
 makes me. Coyote curling above bean hills,
 alfalfa seed. Still the cardinal’s red body
 held in a cat’s maw below the porch. Sunset. 
 Tonight I’ll believe in good things. 
                                         
                                         Cardinals flying.