Her breathing hoarse as raven's cries fills my ear, pressed against the warm and sweaty phone I hear JJ's bed rustle like wings birds in flight migrating across a mirage ocean outside my living room window Stellar Jays, wild turkeys, robins, a pair of California quails, and that unknown white breasted spotted large bird, again. "my dream life opens the window ... haven't eaten in a month, can you believe it?" I can't I search for avian names in the book she gave me, Christmas 1999, when her legs held her upright before she phoned and named the cancer, pancreatic, that uninvited, invaded " ... brown leather jacket ..., the one with fringe," she tells me, 1966 I recall tree swallows — I think and a male northern flicker dig for grubs in a rotted tree stump "I give myself the right to freak out if the pain gets too bad," she reminds me, I'd promised to help her leave. ... eddies of baby quails circle around their mothers, there's always one that stays behind her words slur like the cooing of doves — songs run together morphine memories I look at the phone and wish I could reach through the miles of tangled wires                      switches clicking on and off                      like the gnawing termites that downed                      the Cypress outside my window and stroke her falcon face just two months ago we examined our appointment books searching for time                      she'd promised me a Thanksgiving dinner for my birthday                      turkey stuffed with homemade cornbread and water chestnut stuffing tonight I watch the moon slide down disappearing behind Douglas firs. Reprinted with permission Copyright © 2007 by Joseph R Phelan

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