There is one moment I want back
to zip a dress, buckle a shoe
slip a blouse across my shoulders
close the refrigerator door
answer the phone
accelerate more slowly
stop at the yellow light
change my intersection with time

go back
to the things I can change
iron the collar again
make a neat stack of the magazines
fluff a pillow, fold a blanket
write milk and cheese on the grocery list
change my trajectory, move
into a different reality

just as valid
so, eyes on the road
I recall every detail
each wing bar, tail stripe, eye ring
and hours later can pick
that very woodpecker from the list
in Birds of Louisiana
by Lowery, the man who thirty
years after it had become extinct
could not prove with certainty
he had seen an Ivory Bill

He had eaten his eggs
with the perfect number of bites
held his foot just so on the gas
braked slightly three miles back
and the bird, herself in cahoots
had eaten the bug in harmony
with the natural knowledge
of where to be and when
to best prove her existence

That the crest and bill were real
as his own nose and eyes
and alive
as the child who chases his ball
into the street
while his mother sits at the window
and watches as I come over the hill