For I Am Oriole

I’m waiting for the oriole.

I’ve bought the orange suet,

placed it as an offering outside.

I’ve meditated on its Latin name

and contemplated Audubon’s religious

rendering in his Holy Birds of America.

May First is almost here and that’s the date

which marks their resurrection in the Valley.

I promise not to swear when hearing golden voices in the air!

I’ve really done as much as I can do, although

this afternoon I’ll go out and buy a genuine orange,

slice it nicely into numbers I’ve been told in dreams

sing like magical attraction to the lovely flying one

and nail them on the wind. The truth will come

and when it does I’ll wear its black and orange feathers

timelessly and naturally in the hot intention of the Sun.