Dusk, and the sound that pulls me:
your wheep
of a whistle. Before me the fringe tree
in full bloom.

Times like this I say to myself,
It takes so little,
something I know already.
Then why do I have to remind myself?

Because you have recently returned 
to inhabit, like music,
the woods and ears
that have memorized you.

Because your refrain is a small carnival,
though I rarely see you.

Because until this year
the fringe tree
could not hold  its blossoms
long enough to glow like phosphorescence. 

Because for your nest
you will steal the snakeskin
lying by the coreopsis.
 
Because the pale yellow of your breast
matches the vanilla
of the fringe tree's
early blooms.

Because dusk signals the death of one thing,
birth of another.