We wander after the bird watchers like two drugged parrots.
Stare through binoculars—nothing but cloud and blur.
Somehow we have missed the pale-winged Nun Birds
whispering in the tops of trees.

We tune more to civilization, proud men in black suits,
two sombreros asleep on a bench.
I have pledged myself to markets and shacks
while you were out seeking flower vendors,
children tending dolls.
Eyes click into orbit, planets moved by color and light.
        
South of Matchuala, someone saw a Varied Solitaire
resting on a cactus fence. We saw the fence.

I hunger for detail, yet speak of animals
as if they were all one animal,
one large breathing below the surface of man,
one burrowing, one howl.
I gather shells without knowing what they are called in books.
If the bird watchers ask me what a bird looked like,
I answer, respectfully, “It had—wings.”
And feel my ignorance rests somewhere close
to the heart of miracles.

This is the history of Mexico:
A tree splits into the beak of the Splendid Woodpecker.
A Mexican Flicker peacefully spins red wool with straw.
A Squirrel-Cuckoo trembles under the double weight of his name.
High in the mountains, villages composed of Least Antwrens
live happily. They do not know how powerful the other birds can be,
how the Solitary Eagle spreads his giant wings
to circle the lonesome earth.

Listen—tonight the birdwatchers are tilting their ears
toward the jungle, the forest, the stars.
A Broad-billed Mourner is about to tell us
the latest episode of evening news
while we, gringos with brightly colored tents and no tail feathers,
peck and nest on the edge of the sky.