My duck pond polluted with human filth,
Old grizzly pidgins flock to eat the disease,
It shows in their mottled grey and brown feathers,

My little duck sits on a rock and cleans.
Wondering...
Where oh where has my baby gone!

Sickened with sadness I can stand it no longer.

And the plane flew away
Another business trip
Another day
Or so you say
Another day without you
While you walk the park
Happy
Picnicking
Not alone
Without me
Your partner
For life
Or so you say

I.
Take a plane to San Francisco.
Drive north on 101 across the Bay Bridge,
Through the tunnel on Yerba Buena Island
past the frame houses of Oakland,
past the oil refinery that ignites the sky
past the dry, brown coastal hills,
which were emerald green just a month ago,
that unfold like a hardback novel
and flatten out into the valley.
Drive north on 80 until you get to 99
and keep driving north,
past orchards that line the road like soldiers bearing fruit
past vast fields filled with soy and sorghum
and the ancient dead volcano which breaks through
the flat earth without explanation or warning
and keep driving north,
Until you reach Chico.  

II.
You can get off at E. 1st Ave, but you’ll have to
double-back to Vallambrosa to get to the park.
Stop the car and walk across the foot bridge.
Over the creek, over the dam that creates the pool
named for the towering trees all around you.
There you will see a boy about to jump
into the cool creek water.
He is about 11 or 12 years old.
He will not see you.
He will not know how far you have traveled.
He is too absorbed by the sounds of the other children
Shouting and playing and the reassuring touch
of the warm sun
gently drying his wet skin.
He does not know
that this moment,
Exquisite and feather light,
Like a glass orb lit from beneath,
Will be locked inside a precious box,
and that precious box will be buried
deep within your gut,
And carried by you both,
For the rest of your lives.

I love the way it feels
To be barefooted
In the park,
The normally unexposed
Flesh of my feet
Brushing the blades of
Slightly browned grass
And dirt.

I hear the chirping
Of insect correspondence,
Croaking like frogs
In loud crescendos.
The lush green leaves
On the trees with fat wooden trunks,
They glow yellow under the
Fluorescent night lamps.
The leaves crinkle and crackle,
Shimmy in the wind,
Creating a summer staccato
Against the sounds
Emerging from those
Ever-chattering crickets.

A light breeze kisses my skin,
Twisting itself around
The darkness,
Morphing into a double helix,
DNA of the
breath
Of
Fresh air,
The summer
Heat
Briefly catching
A
Cold.

what bird are you,
dropping to your knees
like a servant
whilst I worry about ebola?

what kind of bird are you, dear?

how I wish I had a book about birds,
how I wish I'd paid attention
when you whistled your name