A plump robin turns its seed eye
on me suspicious, then agrees I’m not
worth betting on.
The path lights, strangled by a plant
called archangel, click on
and the seeper hoses begin to weep.
A white-crowned sparrow’s melody repeats
and is rejoined with all the notes transposed,
syllables articulated in the western flare.
A neighbor’s hands touch piano keys
as if she were their lover – her favorite
song without words.
I stand up in the backache garden
and share in the summer evening’s relief
at being granted the gift of long shadow.