for Myrtle Creek Nursery, now closed

Here and there,
among the low
branches of old
black oaks
and sycamores,
wooden hand-built
bird houses hang
like half-loaves
for the robins and towhees,
the bluebirds and orioles,
for the mourning doves
below.

Butterflies circle
folks with notebooks
at table-friendly spaces—
Adirondack chairs
and park benches—
a world of ornithological
expression shorter
than six-syllable labels,
their morse code a koan
not yet translated,
but if we learn to listen
better, might one day
help save the biosphere.