Читать книгу The Heronry - Mark Jarman - Страница 8

Cul-de-Sac Idyll

The flycatcher feeds its young a lightning bug, frantically blinking.

The trees forget the hurricane as they stand still for days.

The defibrillator sleeps in a lump under our neighbor’s shirt pocket.

The flycatcher snagging its prey squirms like a trout in midair.

The dogwoods this spring blew all their savings on taffeta.

The cardiac muscle fibers shudder like untimed pistons.

The flycatcher’s beak is a leggy mouthful of bent pins.

The poplars go first, brown-bagging their leaves, one by one.

One false move and the defibrillator kicks like a hoof.

There are words that stop and start sunlight, moonlight, and starlight,

verbs like the motion of thought, nouns like dreams and daydreams,

and the end of the world, and the end of the end, right here.