Genius or talent isn't the question, or
whether beauty could be trained to flourish
in the thorniest garden. Perhaps this is
a story of invention and variation, the infinite
ways one pushes out a line that's then picked up
and given another shape in someone else's mouth.
Perhaps this particular bird is a singular bird:
its fluting tones original to its temperament
and not to any other in the larger murmuration,
though each wears the same coat lightly stippled
white, flocked with purple, green, and gold. Yet,
a song only becomes what it is when one note joins
or swerves alongside another, the mystery of never
breaking off a single feather even as it curves.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
