how the hours have fallen
from their early days among monks
now they are uniform
modular
single-use
save for the odd poet or naturalist
taking minutes like medicine
for whom listening might be
the purest form of devotion
at the bottom of the hollow
two migrant waterthrushes
serenade the stream
its blended whiskery gurgles
just before it vanishes
into a culvert under the railroad
and a freight train’s
ground-shaking metal
i climb into the sun
of mourning cloaks
the pale edges of their wings
dazzle like blades
as they chase and battle
over an open patch of ground
crossed by the shadows
of slow vultures
i come to a clearing where all
the oaks have died
paradise
for a pair of bluebirds
whose blink-and-you-miss-it copulation
releases a torrent of song
it is their golden hour
round and endless
here they will ravel detritus
into a nest