New Mexico Mercury

Wind waggles the small oriole,
plume-bulged, through the intersection,
and he crosses off to the side:

ragged wing, swoop black –

he nicks the street near the orange jeep,
leans in half-numb, I think,
with all this strew
and whistle. Sky sails to a blue roof

on an old Suburban, and nervous dimensions
of dust in the rearview mirror. In front,
a traffic light bares to green

and our engine shudders through
the juncture as sun arcs
between the jagged air and mountains:

this feather draft, small passerine –

kinetic gold light
curving through and hurtling.