photo_camera by Ridham Nagralawala
flock of
ordinary birds,
we’re walking
along the dry river,
and you say—the birds
don’t think of themselves
as ordinary,
in fact,
they probably call themselves
“the birds,”
and we laugh, tinkling about
how people
tend to call themselves
“the people”
as if there were no others,
and you continue—
the birds have
a creation story.
did they come from far away? I ask.
no, you say, from here.
red bulrushes, jagged mountains,
low clouds punctuating
turquoise sky
and heaps of bright green
mistletoe
torn from its
commensal home
by the wind.
it’s Christmas day
we’re two old Jews
out walking
by the Rio
no longer Grande
but a huge dry bed.
I pick up a piece
of mistletoe
and hold it
over our heads
and kiss you
on your soft lips
while the birds
write solstice
across the pale sun.