The finches still come, their sweet yellow
shock against the pale powder blue,
the jays like playful drops of water
among the dry branches
and the robins, small puffs of ash
with bright red flame in the weeping willows.
The urracas chitter-chatter
with their iridescent, night-shaped wings
beating hard against the parched desert air.
They talk like my grandmas do
sing-songey, in a language that
curls up around my tongue.
The ravens come too-
stoic obsidian flakes of night.
I imagine them like Lala
down at Wisdom Corner clutching his cane
whispering the way the wind does,
telling stories to anyone who will listen.
But that is thousands of miles from here,
a time far away and years ago
and not the new of the home
here in my lap, with the birds and the cracks
and the broken doorknob and the marvelous
New Mexico light that weaves a magic spell
and makes anywhere, leaking and broken
or open like the endless sky, a place so much more