the ear-splitting screams of a mockingbird trigger an old dream of holding a hummingbird in my hand popcorn light, its husk of feathers, hollow of life, toes curled around the last twig, still held in their grasp I turn the bird over, egg white eyes, throat a purple fantasy, the iridescence dances in the twist of light . . . nearly crashing into another walker, I snap out of my trance I’m so sorry oven like, the sun reminds me to keep moving and pay attention,

everyone likes tribes tribe of family tribe of friends our political tribe the tribes of town, state and country we like to belong when belonging means circling up to mutually shield or support the members of the tribe inherit in this model - a fear of other tribes, each clan keeps watch over their own boundary, as something like trust, flows between them, moving from solid to liquid or vanishes into thin air being a citizen of one world you’d need a much larger arc of

a recording of crickets must pull me into the forest as I fall asleep quickly at night however, if I awaken to hear a live one singing in the room, I get up, zero in on the song quietly move things if I must, find its spot, then go predator on it, stepping, swatting, kicking, swearing funny that I find the live version so upsetting and the canned one preferred it must be about control as I pee, sip water, flip my pillow to the cool side and slip into bed my body ‘s