The birds on the
wire
on this late
fall evening
of orange and
purple
know a thing or
two
about musical
composition,
with their
constant liftoffs
and returns to
the black clef of wires
against the dark
blue vellum of sky.
Half notes and
quarters
jump and trade
places
and leave
forever
or swoop back
for encores,
black notes of a
symphony
dictated by some
ancient cadence,
some thrumming
rhythm
in a brain the
size of a pea.
And who conducts
their wings,
their brushes
with the muse
as the day dies
with such lovely melody?
High above,
dressed in a black tux,
he leans down
and gives the air
one final swipe
with his baton
and then bows,
cloaked by the air.
It’s how the
world will end one day,
a final movement
with apocalyptic flair.
The sparrows
know this of course.
They were sworn
to a secrecy
of feathered
brotherhood
long before the
trumpets
were scheduled
to judge and blare.
~William Hammett
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