87

It is after the rain the passerines
Cross the gulf from the far trees
To the cherry in the lee of the
House, the branches trembling as
Solitary drops leave them as the
Sunflowers limpid and bright sway.
Then the passerines cross to feed
In the premature gloom, a light
That pulls colour from the plumage
Of the birds and from the earth.
They pivot on the air in contest
And reorder themselves continually
And eat the dry millet from the
Plastic vessels and meshwire tubes
And come and go from the bushes
In abrupt clusters of wingbeats
With no system at all in their action.
Their hearts race all the time inside
Them, made up of ligaments and
Valves like minute components in
An archaic and dense clockwork.
They are all motion, recrossing dark.
They starve in their sleep otherwise.