The drought brought the Cooper’s hawks
who perch on high branches in smog-hazy air,
swoop down target hummingbirds, finch,
mourning doves, an explosion of feathers, sticky
with bird murder, fragrance of bones, drops
of sugar water fresh on their beaks. Yesterday’s
freak summer shower sent the hawks away
and the little birds returned for a day, safe
from the blue darter predators, their hungry shrieks
replaced by the thirsty music of tree sparrows,
their open mouths questions I can’t answer. They
trusted the feeder, their slow drip heroin swinging
in the breeze. When the hawks flew off we could hear
the earth groan. This newly parched world confuses the lizard.
I see him hiding under the fig tree. I watch as he counts
backwards to sleep, closes one eye, refuses to die.