Jackhammering woodpeckers search bark
for insects or sap; yellow-sleeved arms
of forsythia wave hello; a girl in pink shorts
and pigtails chalks her driveway,
a curious tongue peeking out the corner
of her mouth—each wonder noticed
and reveled over on the long drive
to the second doctor’s office.
We’ve dreamed this white-smocked sage
will decry the first, sifting scans and charts,
shaking an error free from silt. He’ll point to it
like I am doing now to the hummingbird
hovering impossibly at a feeder,
lapping from a silver spout of nectar.
Not that we’ll remember it later,
slouching up front steps, crossing
the living room and falling on the couch,
dogs with dire eyes lying beside us,
the smell of something sour in the air,
and me, suddenly quiet, weight
of every word like rocks on my tongue.