And now, to close, Elizabeth, I'm sorry.
I'll show you the entomologist landscape.
We have an entomologist--
the queen of entomology here.
You've all been very kind, very patient.
"Woodpecker."
"On the day the poppies burst their tight green fist
in the gem and the geranium bloomed all bloody red and ruby
so the pileated woodpecker returned.
He ricocheted off the pine trunk.
Then, picking among yellow bugs, spread quickly
to the pea vines.
Fat-breasted, he drilled his name.
Let it drip and trill round the forest, down his throat.
Landlord of the mountain.
Mafioso in a tweed vest.
Red-crested whale of the sky, he announced the summer solstice.
We ran to the window knowing that last snow would melt
on the bitter roots to flood our fields,
knowing it was time for Aurora Borealis, heaven's beast,
her tentacles flicking like jellyfish on the shortest
night of the year.
We did the dance of the woodpecker, the fat flicker,
the pagan priest.
When clover bloomed, salsify, and wild roses, and we
knew that winter was over, we did
the dance of the smart, hard-headed, flashy creatures
of the world.
After all, in summer, when blood is thick and dark
as the flicker's crest, when we might all
fatten on berries and weeds alone,
isn't there room for each of us, even the greedy ones?
After all, have you never wanted to drive at top speed
to slam into a tree or dive from a ledge or catch fire,
slit your wrists, let the fluids geyser?
Not suicide, but it's burning.
Not rage directed at humankind.
No.
The heart remains a sweet berry and ripe.
But red drives the stickleback wild.
Red small spots among the green, among the brown rocks.
And so on the long day of the summer solstice when
the world spins silly with light,
we do the dance of the woodpecker,
twirling our skirts and mustaches,
tapping our resonant branches, our underwear flashing white
as we shake the irregular flags of our body
into undulate raw flight."
Thank you very much.
Dance.