With a wing cocked towards a lit lamp,
he can change the night's mood.
Change its course, too. Maestro,
do you never tire, as I do,
of trash-talking to the hands that flutter
after you? Or sassing
this rolled-up newspaper that eons ago
our progenitors perused
in the sweet half-light.
Apparently it's already September.
I guess that makes me
your bad news. Don't watch. Here's
my hand in descent.
How gently your wingbeats
enter me as I hover, briefly,
tasting the delicate light, trembling
as blackbirds bullet by.
Nance Van Winckel
University of Washington Press