She takes a little blue pill on Wednesdays

and Saturdays—gray on the rest. Today

in the Northwest, signs of blue are disappearing


into the smoke and clouds of winter.

Even the Steller’s Jays have abandoned

these woods, leaving crows, barred owls


and juncos to chatter among the last

of the berries on the blue spectrum, sweet

summer jewels in shades of dying.


When she swallows a little blue pill on Wednesdays

and Saturdays, her bed is less inviting.

We walk by the Salish shore


scavenging for mussel shells, seabird tracks,

bits of glass. Restored, she feels like that jay

extending her beak toward winter


preparing a hermitage out of discarded

feathers and frayed prayer flag strips,

the ink faded into unknowable requests.