i slept in my old bunk bed  

does the bird catcher tree mean to
leave burs in the feathers of this gull? 
small spiked seeds. thousand-toothed. little rusted nails
hooking to the bird's body. passengers. 
i sit on the forest floor waiting for summer
to be overcome with snow. you say again
please let this be a harsh winter & all i can think about
are the bird-catcher trees & the carcasses
of the ones weighed down by their seeds
& how the seeds stuck to their body might try
to make trees-- trees jutting through their light bones
trees aching through their calls. my father
plucked burrs from my hair when i was a little girl
still roaming on all fours through the grass.
still preening my feathers--still stealing eggs
from the fridge & pretending they were my own.
i tell myself that nature kills & kills & kills
but can't ever mean to do it. at least i have to tell myself
that the bird-catcher tree is different than myself 
& my brother as we toss a football back & forth 
or argue about god. who is the god then
of the animals? of the bird-catcher tree & do the trees
pray for the souls of the birds still trying
to gain flight as they struggle wadded up with seed?
we never had a bird-catcher tree but we did
planet a pine tree in the yard & i'd go out
& hold the cones as if they were its gifts to me.
how much of my understanding of nature comes from
my desire to own it--or maybe rather to 
use it as a mirror. a bird-catcher tree grows from
my forehead & i snip it off restlessly with 
nail clippers. my nails grow with bark this morning.
the forest floor is damp & there are no more warm days.
would you love me even with this tree growing
from my head? yes, even though there will be
dead birds & they will be my fault & the birds
might tell their children that i am something
awful & i am to be avoided. my brother & i believed 
that we could catch a bird if we ran fast enough.
common cardinals & a sparrow or two. once my brother
got close kneeling in the grass with his hands outstretched
like a statue. yes i'm picking birds from my hair
& burs from my feathers. there's a bird in my mouth 
who flew in while we were talking but 
i don't tell you about that. a bur in my mouth
like a jewel. i would make a bad organism.
i'm sorry bird i'm sorry.