I am facturing a bird of fortune,
trying to find significance in geese.
They bray meaning to the trees,
and if I am waiting or worried,
thinking about food, listening to children,
I make a mental note,
but the goose-sign so far seems to be encrypted.
Over the Hudson River a white crane
imitates a gull. I mistake the crane
anyway for the cow egret, who, African,
crossed the Fernando de Noronha Plain
to Brazil and bred north, a bird determined.
I should mention how I surprised
a Great Blue Heron at Tiana Bay.
There was an inhuman eye, fully round,
fakily set like that in a blond teddy bear.
Struck clear gold and unthinking, an eye
like a sword-straight beak, like backward knees.
So my folklore follows from
my caprice: when the killdeer screeches
I reverse course; whistle with the thrush
to freely pass him on the street;
gesture minutely to the redtail hawk
so the mice get a head start.
Seeing one crane means there is one crane.
Seeing a heron means I am impossible.