Green parakeets shriek

                bird delirium overhead,

                dissolve into a hackberry,

                chitter the husks from seeds,

                jet off in screech-fest.


                The Virgen appears

                on curtains, Camaros, trees.

                She assembles her faithful,

                gathers them unto herself,

                queen of the sweetest of crowds.


                At Pepe’s on the River,

                no more bottles of beer on the wall

                or anywhere else, a winter afternoon

                when a swarm of Snowbirds quaffed

                198 pitches of la Buena vida.