The songbirds are declining

like credit cards. The woman

stating facts in the aviary

reminds me that mourning

doves make milk, secreting

the liquid from their throats

for their young. The cardinal

mom divebombs us twice, 

then returns to nest building

like nothing happened, but 

my heart is still flinching fast.

The barn owl’s face looks

wood-carved, like we could

chop down an oak and find

this face among the rings. 

Her name is St. Louis. All 

of the birds here are named

for their places of origin.

The red-tailed hawk is 26-

years-old. I don’t remember 

his name, where he’s from—

but I smile when I realize

that in this place, I am

Phoenix, also bird, and as

all the birds here know, 

we’re never just the same 

when we put our hollow 

bones together again, but 

who ever said we wanted

to rise back up unchanged.

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