The Best Time to Be Here
When we go to the mountain, my husband looks for bats, marked by fast fluttering and ditzy circles, high above us
and he does his best
calling for owls, which I adamantly denied were there, unwilling to humor him, for a full on eleven years, before there was one.
Naturally I had to confess, he was right
so that now when he who-who’s, I stop to listen for the response of any true witnesses in our fox-wedding church.
He’s reverent of the black-hooded juncos hopping across our path,
gingerly follows the lone red-headed sap-sucker hammering around the trunk of a Douglas fir until the bird loses its nerve for lack of privacy,
and stands mesmerized by the number of goldfinches ornamenting the branches of a plum tree and blackberry brambles he can’t wait for
when we can forage like bears.
The aggressive squawking of a jay has his eyes rolling for the blue and he points at last to where the crows scold and angrily mob the brazen egg thief.
He spots a red tail hawk feather, and picks it up, cherishing it as a gift from his father.
A robin does its quick running-walk and snatches a plump earth worm,
song sparrows call out for love,
and humming birds throw kisses at us.
A sky of fleeting tangerine and pink salmon fire sun
sets through the black silhouetting trees
and he says to me, “There’s our light, sweetie. This is our time on the mountain.”