The birds stopped coming after the annuals died.
I didn’t realize how much I missed them until the bluebird

Returned, lured by the burgundy haze of the fall pansies
Pouring from the window boxes. I was too slow finding

The camera and then I left the cap on. The bird rose
Into a cut of sky and I was left with a vision of blue–

His sapphire eye and marigold breast. Maybe it was you,
Released from your standing body–fingers fluid between

Tissue and organ–as you operate in the crowded surgical
Theatre, transformed to tell me autumn is here. I would not

Be surprised. This brief visit imitates your frequent calls
Between cases. After he flies, the room seems to hold you.

I see the white waves throwing themselves into the Cliffs
Of Moher, your eyes stealing blue from the sky.