Junco Come equinox we take a stand apart. Beside the driveway’s heaves there’s scattered husks dislodged from seed we can’t refill for months. Oh love, I wish we didn’t have to think in weeks, in phases of the moon. I wish we’d disconsider Fish and Game’s advice. I wish the bears would spook themselves before they reached and crossed the power lines. The longer and the shorter nut- hatches’ frequent absences signal something time demands we spend our lives deciphering. You clean the feeder while I hunt down the dog that jumped the fence. A junco’s missed the smorgasbord. For days on end the dark-eyed bird sparrows after a buffet the February snow and sun revealed, revoked, revitalized the edges of the gravel’s width with. All that’s left for it is shed in tire tracks dispassionately wrought and wrecked by early spring. There’s wishing and there’s wanting, seasons named for different prey. We’re wishing, then we want. The pilfered clutch the dog’s destroyed hangs from its lips. You and I are two damn tired perched adults, hoping someone else will come and clean everything up.