If somewhere in the violet depths of dusk
a warbling vireo sings, reassess
the blasphemy of this time and know
you are not lost, though the race may well be.
Settle next the echoes of the wood thrush.
Let silence between notes resonate
upon the skin and walk to Elmwood Station,
crossover the tracks and board that tiny locomotive
which thinks it can, yes it can, chugging
its confessional to the next station of the senses.
As the engine’s vapor slows, alight
onto the steamy breath of an August platform.
Sit awhile on the bench as the scent of old carbon
reminds us we too are white throated sparrows,
Sad Sam Peabodys, and our music must fly
south too if ever someone is to hear it fly again.
Yes, there on the hill slavers a rabid dog so timid
in his rigid trembling, he’s become certain in savageness,
driven to lacerate, clueless that sunlight will bleach his bones
just like the others, greenery for next season’s song.
