Birding

Kingbird in a tree
looking at me. The greenheads
are furious, swarming and throwing themselves
against the car windows. They're just insects
but I hope the windows hold anyway:
its my blood they want. I memorize
every part of that bird: black eyes, white throat and belly,
white terminal band across the end of his tail. Black
legs, and wings coming to points before, and not past,
the end of his tail. Hours later, I have a jolt of memory
and pull the Peterson's off the shelf
just as the sky starts to darken, and the thunder rumbles not
too far away. There you are in the flycatchers
in the flat pages of a book
like there were greenheads
trying to eat my blue Subaru
because to them it was vaguely bovine:
quadruped, and dark like an underbelly. Little kingbird,
I memorized you
so I could look you up
and know your name. We made a little eye contact
through my windows. You held still for me
while I looked you up and down. I'm in love with your
black feathers, and your white ones, and your bright black eyes,
and your tiny bones.