The Singers

They are threatening to leave us          the nimble-throated singers

          the little murderers with the quick pulses

They  perch at the ends of   bare branches          their tails

          are ragged and pitiful          the long green

feathers are fallen out          They  go on eating and eating

          last autumn's yellow melia berries

They do not care that you approach          cold corpses

       rot in the grass          in the reeds

The gray-shouldered crows hobble about          the wren

          barely a mouthful          cocks her pert tail

and threatens to slaughter the white-footed cat in the bushes

          They do not understand that they are dying

They are threatening to leave us          how quickly we forget

          the way they taught us how to play our voices

opening soul to weightlessness          like the Spartan poet

          singing under the burden of  his old bones

to the chorus girls with their honey songs and their holy voices

          how he wished he could scoot like a kingfisher

lightly over the flower of  the waves          who boasted

          I know the tunes of every bird but I Alcman

found my words and song in the tongue of the strident partridge

          Where will we find songs          when the sleek-headed

mallards are gone          who chase each other around the pond

          the reluctant duck and the lovesick drake

The way she turns her head to the side to scold him

          whack  whack  whack  whack  whack          the way her boyfriend

chases off  his rival and then swims back          reeb  reeb

          with feeble reassurances          the way

he sits on top of  her          the way she flaps her wings

          to keep above water          the way they look

pleased with themselves          wagging their tails          smoothing

          each feather back in its right place

They are threatening to leave          but you may still catch them

          saying goodbye          stealthed in the cedar and cypress

at dawn          in the dark clarity between sleep and waking

          A run of  five notes on a black flute

another          and another          buried deep in the mix

          how many melodies can the air hold

And what they sing          so lovely and so meaningless

          may urge itself  upon you          with the ache

of   something  just beyond the point of  being remembered

          the trace of a brave thought in the face of sadness