In the holly, a steller’s jay,
angles hiding angles–

black-beaked, black
-crested, less bird

than polygon,
the very shape

of caution–
its sleek

blue bravura
hidden in the shadows

of one hundred
glossy leaves,

I saw momentarily
the bird itself,

not the brash emblem
it presents and loudly

projects from blatant
chimney perches–

It was unguarded
I saw a touch of matte

on a bird that is
all glint

and grit and out
and open,

always, except
having found this

hardwood bower,
each leaf scalloping

into toothsome spines,
and deeming it tough

and tall and deep
enough,

it softened,

until I opened
the window

while washing up
and met its very eye

and watched the flinch
the stutter

-step the flight,
fragile,

for all its sure
acrobatics–

sure distractions,
as a feathered arc

is not the bird
that makes it–

seeing this jay,
I now see

the distinction