It landed on top of one of the dead aspens.

A desiccated looking creature with no feathers on its head.

It may have been an evening grosbeak, a male,

its underbelly practically golden,

but with a horrendously large, bloody-red colored beak.

There’s no precipitation anywhere—

the poor thing leapt from the tree

and pecked at a withered crabapple

which had been on the ground for years.

I went out with a saucer of recycled water

and frightened the fragile creature who

flew quickly to what it presumed was safety

in the reflection of my sliding glass door.