To us there are eggs and there are Backbirds. But there is the man, too, trying without feathers to incubate a solution. We spread our wings, reticulating our air space. A man stands nder us and worries at his ability to do the same. When night comes like a visitor from outer space we stop our ears lest we should hear tell of the man in the moon.
Summer is at an end.
The migrants depart. Prayer Baudelaire's grave not too far from the tree of science. Mine, too, since I sought and failed to steal from it, somewhere within sight of the tree of poetry that is eternity wearing the green leaves of time. We need it as bread of a cold climate, ermine to trim our sins with, a brief sleeve for charity's scarecrow to wear its heart on, bold as a robin. And the tooth that bruises.