Boyce Thompson Arboretum, AZ
Palo verde trees flower in clouds of yellow,
but my father isn’t looking up.
He’s 85 and dying of cancer,
so he bends to read the bronze names
transforming arbor benches
from places of rest to memento mori.
The otherworldly spikes of boojum
tower beneath the sky’s blue arch;
a Palmer’s agave raises its red-gold staff,
and glittering hummingbirds appear.
He smiles as I call curious songbirds down
with a tzweet-tzweet. Verdin! Tanager!
Stunned with heat, we move slowly
toward the sound of trickling water
and stop, transfixed, as two birds drink
from a ledge within arm’s reach.
After checking my book, I tell him
they’re Bell’s vireos, the first I’ve seen,
and he makes it his morning’s mission
to spot anything with wings.
He settles in a gum tree’s shade, forgets
his back is up against a memorial,
and points out the foraging flocks
of phainopeplas and cedar waxwings.
Later we watch curve-billed thrashers
perched between knots of thorns,
one fluttering and begging,
the other feeding it cactus fruit.
