Ocellated Turkey, Tikal

This thing, this bird of astonishing beauty
Coverts of hammered copper and Caribbean sea
Caruncles like flower buds wobbling as it strides
across the lawn before the temple
Lowers its small sharp head and begins to pray
A throbbing sound that resonates in my breastbone
Throws its head up with a cry
Walks closer to the temple and prays again
Perhaps it only asks me to keep my distance
But it faces the altar
Where its ancestors' blood ran hot into bowls
Mayas still come here too
They come not to pray
But like me
Only to wonder.