Whatever bird
you are

The little one emitting
a slow and steady series of similar chirps

The rockstar melodian
trilling fluidly for hours on end

The sharp jay shocking up the neighborhood
with bully in his voice

Or the guardian laying down smooth tracks
on the perimeter circuit from tree to tree

You ought to consider
the window mounted cat

Who watches everything
and contemplates bringing you to silence

Who imagines you as just another irritation
worth his attention

And after having considered that
for a while

Please —
sing louder

No sir,
no.  I won’t
grow up — I’ll
grow down instead,

into the earth,

drawing in
shadow nutrients,
gritty water.

It is the Goddess of Dirt
that I serve.

I may present to you
a form
that seems
symmetrical
and bright,

but it springs from
the insistent tug
in a holy underground,

and what can be seen, admired,
used for shelter or shade,
logged
and laid out in board feet
or carved into utilitarian
shapes —

what you count as important —

that’s
not the truest part of me,
no,
no sir:

go ahead
and take it.

That stump
you leave behind?
That grip of roots
holding on after
you think you’ve gotten
all of me
that matters?

You come back.
Try grinding me out,
blowing me up,
poisoning me.

I’ll be there, somewhere under
your feet,
well and deeply dug in,
still saying my

"sir, no sir"

to you
with every ring of sucker shoots
I send up around my remains,

a crown for Her dark
and somber head.