Читать книгу Where the Sky Opens - Laurie Klein - Страница 12

So why do I always spot the homely birds?

Mouse-brown, on those twig feet

you look like a refugee. Are you hurt,

little wife? Are you brooding, as I am,

over the latest spill of blood and feathers,

songless, over the next ravaged nest?

Talk to me. Creak open a pocket-lined wing

concealing a cottontail, a collapsible hat.

Convince me the song of Zion lives, before

the long blue eye of this wind impels us

to shelter where doubt builds its house:

a tatter of leaves,

dust, and greenstick fractures.