in winter, the pathways are visible,

and the birds carry thought branch to

branch, plumped up full on dendrites

where in winter the dendrites of a single tributary

of a hackberry tree swinging suggest perhaps

the possibility that i remove never from river

to the left of the left hemisphere

at the temple, above it, outside, out the window

bird-song, conversant, fluid – in the branches

of the lucid trees; and that patter of the coffee-

maker, exhalation, hum, to the right; foot-

steps, in the aftermath of water running –

sink, tub, splosh – outside something like

dendrites, the filaments of corn-silks

draped – with creatures beaking, tweaking,

nittering staccato across the interlace –

for maybe, one thousand days.

for fifty years, or fifty-seven

I propose we make a bird

sanctuary right here in the back

of our head, with the crows

in the top of the trees, or the ravens,

as the case may be, reminders, omens,

good luck, of the ravine, or alley-

way, cawing, crowing, jawing; and then

inside in the back of our heads,

in this sanctuary in the back part

of our minds, cardinals, of course,

the tufted titmouse; the sparrow,

the wren; the robin, perhaps,

if lucky, will build its nest

again twice in a season, double

nested apartment, two-deckers

close to the spine, and finch,

wood-pecker, sap-sucker, and the

mocking-bird & mourning dove;

then, will come with any luck

and come what may, surrounding,

some rarities, the visitors,

the glimpses, passing through,

and maybe even to stay,

on these branches and these

synapses, these not brittle

yet fragile regenerative

pathways, berries, stepping

stones, buddings, light movement

across, of course, song.