Rain and Song
Blue finches fling song
At the late blue light
That stretches under rain, now drifting southward.
Their chirrup pulses
Opening off water droplets,
Shape up early night
Around a courtyard made
Of fieldstones and half-timbered houses–
Chirrup surges
Breaking in ripples with my thought
Against the walls.
My wish to utter tones but quietly uptuned
Brought only dead
Thumps–
No ridings of vibrato into last light,
No ‘you’ or ‘me’ but only ‘They’ or ‘it’ muffled,
Thumping,
Dead.
Birds, you do not shrink if I whistle out to
You,
Nor fly
But answer when I imitate
Your full high all outpourings,
Nor grieve but weave me in
To your song.
Carry me off somewhere on overtones.