And Yet (Poem)

In a fork among branches

Of a Monterey Cypress tree

I come upon

A yellow bird

Smaller than my thumb,

But commanding.

She looks me straight in the eye:

Don’t!

Then flies away.

Here is her perfect nest,

Her perfect eggs.

I am here to look for cypress canker,

One tree already culled,

The other twenty-four at risk.

Instead—

Or really, first—

I find the bird,

The nest,

The eggs.

Death is coming,

Heralded by sickness

In these towering trees

I raised from infancy;

For Laura, lying in hospice

Contorted in pain;

And yet,

The bird.