From the Book 
 THE MAN WHO MAPS CRASH SITES 
 makes handwritten notes in black ink--only black, so as not to be confused with the blue of the rivers, the red elevations--notations on thin paper, one inch equaling one mile, the distance from knuckle to rounded thumb, more or less, legend blurred and creased by the stress of folding and unfolding and refolding, seeking the most direct route, a series of turns done and undone, corrected right, right, finally left, there--on that mountain ridge, near the marshy woods, by that lake where the great herons gather--he finds tangle of metal and foliage and stone, charred, twisted and greasy with smoke, he finds what's left, those things others can't see, the wreckage and how much it matters. 
 I WANT TO BRING THE BIRDS 
 inside, hold them in my hands, tuck them beneath my shirt, claws and all, feel the sharp tic of each beak, gentle them with my fingers, cradle them against the cage of my ribs, whisper shh shh shh--until they each find and linger in their place: the titmice tatting nests into my hair, crested sparrows and juncos perched and singing from my feet, the jays who see me as so much meat, supplier of suet and otherwise foolish and useless, each take a shoulder, their alarm squawk sudden and hard as a couple of crows stand sentry on my back. The chickadees, those flying golf balls with their punk rock eyes and ebony mohawks, bossy and brazen, take my ears, letting me know just how they see this whole thing going, while the shy nuthatch hides, its cinnamon shadow disappearing into my clothes as it hops up my ribs and nuzzles like a newborn near my heart. A pair of doves, and then another, their wings ash-gray and spotted with apricot, nestle on the soft give of my belly; I touch them with just the tips of my fingers, hoping, praying, they'll teach me the tender songs only possible in the dark. One by one, they all settle in, on my limbs, my skin, feathering, resting, and so do I, settle for real, for the first time in years, as I hear and feel their heartbeats steady, slow, and ease finally into a companion rhythm with my own. Or mine to theirs? In my dreams, it doesn't matter. In my dreams, we are the same.