California Towhee

You won’t sing beyond soft dissolved for me
oh sweet quiet bird?
yet, can I sense your feet
scurry from twig to creek?
or with my wanting seize you
atop hill spyglass wooden gallery
with my eye, almost, not quite
Cinnamon and warm blend–
you pleading, mute, vocalist
the night; dusky,
unstartled, vigilant
and then
a hillslope
and silent pale-grey
By Heather O’Connor