NUTHATCH
            Michael R. Collings
                c. 1/96
===============================


I had thought the Nuthatch alien, exotic,
flitting page to page in Petersons,
washed by Audobons,
pinion-probed in Funk & Wagnalls;
unable to

Rise, it had seemed exotic, alien
until that summer afternoon.
Below, wash of water
over marsh-greened stones.
Above, ranked

Reaches of Sierra granite crest to crest
pine to pine;
but near to me
a single lodgepole mythically straight.
Scrub jays

squawked its invisible crown,
ground squirrels dithered
current bushes
obscuring its base. But
down, around,

weaving lines of shade and light,
intent on infinitesimal grubs
the nuthatch,
neither alien nor exotic,
wound

silences around the trunk. I watched,
perhaps breathed, as this common
comical bird
continued its eternal rounds oblivious
to all.


========
========