Jim Harrison Writes Billy Collins

Peeling an onion in my kitchen,
I'm taken by the way the birds
just beyond this window

blur into each other's names
and become gods of time and place--
the finch in the bush behind

that Italian model in Paris,
the swallow I found still alive
on the concrete of the L.A. River

and that hurt girl who wanted
to take it home with her.
Now that I'm finished

with the onion, I see
more clearly that each
bird has its own god

because here in New York,
even in a garden illuminated
by April, this is a necessity.