It started long ago, back at the farm.
In times of drought, the feathered refugees
came flying east, out of the parching
heartlands of the dying beasts, collapsing
in the dried-up creek, where she would find
the dead, the verdant plumage piled upon
the vivid red, and rush for pails of precious
water, dearly bought but gladly spared.
Now they have come again, to her suburban nest,
out of the rainless furnace of the wilderness.
First, two herons, honking greetings, urgently
take precedence, dipping their undulating necks
towards the pitcher's cool recess; then magpies,
butcher birds and doves, the meekest last,
each to a separate vessel matched to height
and beak. They drink and feed, and drink
before they leave. She rises with the sun,
and fills receptacles and waits.
When they are almost drained,
her work is done, she feels replete.
Secretly she hopes one day they'll come,
the herons or the doves, and take her spirit with them
when her earthly life has run its lease, back to the winged
dominions of the air, where spirits breathe...