The Empty Bird Feeder

At three o'clock in the morning the bodhisattva
tiptoes through the kitchen. He treads
on crumbs from his supper.
Ants roam in the pantry.

Thunder flutters in from the Dakotas,
tangos with the whirlpool of thirst:
angel wings tremble and flicker on the black horizon.
He hears the ants roaring.  He spreads

butter on a piece of bread,
tastes the enzymes mixing with proteins,
turns into the wren outside the window -
He pecks at the small seeds, expecting rain.