Aviary
It is like when I used to visit zoos,
pressing the large doors open
and stepping into the aviary —
humid creation of rain, dripping
like distant static, and all the hidden
voices calling at once. Trees tucked
under ceilings and into green tile walls,
me scanning for colors and wings.
Small sandpipers racing to locate a tide,
black-eyed birds making the crossing
from one side of the room to the other,
sure there is sky here somewhere, the visitors
must have come from somewhere. No wonder
there is so much noise. Today, I open
a window to let in cool air and discover
the backyard is singing, because
it is raining, and the sound floods
into my house — singing, because
it is raining, after forty-seven days
of no rain.
--Brittney Corrigan
