THOMAS MIXON

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.