And it’s not always pretty. 
Those lilies clothed in Solomon’s splendor 
splotch with the leftover tufts

of field mice. For every hummingbird 
darting at an orchid, every goldfinch 
nibbling a quivering primrose stalk,

is an osprey disemboweling a flounder 
or a golden eagle snapping 
a badger’s neck midair. They do not

sow or heap seed heads in barns. 
They swoop and pluck 
in the moment, just as their meals

suddenly find themselves 
sliding down a gullet. Of course I can’t 
forget them, the ragged spirits of prey,

the grains and spores that never 
had a chance to germinate. The dead 
scamper and bloom in the shadow

of my wings, spreading and trailing 
in a train of many colors, and oh, 
the conversations we have.