Diana García

He asked me       if I had a choice what kind of bird would I choose to be. I know what he thought I’d say since he tried to        end my sentences half the time anyway. Something exotic he thought. He thought maybe macaw. That would fit all loudmouthed and primary colored he would think. (He thinks too much I always thought.) But really       at heart I’m more don’t laugh now an L B J little brown job except               except I’m not the flit        from branch to        branch        type such a waste of energy all that wing flap and scritch scritch scratch. Really now can you see me seed pod clamped between my beak like some landowner, Havana cigar clenched between his teeth? No         I think         not I think green heron. You ask why? Personality mainly. That hunched look wings tucked to neck waiting        waiting in the sun on a wide slab of rock alongside a slow river like some old man up from a bad night’s dream where he’s seen his coffin and you say to him Have a nice day and he says Make me. Oh          you want looks I’ll give you looks: long olive green feathers a trace of iridescence I could stand going out       iridescent chestnut sides and head a black crown yes        a crown something regal to flash when you get too close dark bill         bright yellow legs and that creamy streak down my throat and pecs good not great but good         pecs just enough for a quick hop to the next. The best part no sexual dimorphism male         female both alike endless possibilities.

Dusk to dawn, sleek skunks enjoy avocados in my yard. I give wide berth. Before the first jogger leaves her prints on pavement, tough raccoons appear. They pretend they don’t hear my keys click but they peek to make sure it’s me. Foxes play hide-and-seek, sometimes on our lawn, other times across the street, but never after seven; and brazen squirrels eye me from the center of the street, dare me to approach. Will this be a day for Catalina eddies, clouds stacked, catching like magnets in a liquid air swirl? Or will it blow a fierce Santa Ana, days of fires in the hills, smoldering chaparral, winds so fierce birds do low-crawls? I cast a spell for Santa Anas the shallow coast a censer mixed with black sage, Torrey Pine, Engelmann oak—precious oils to fumigate the San Diego skies, the annual burning pulse.