Member Rara Avis
Visiting Earth on a Guest Pass
These trees are never blown, but never still;
bricks block the wind, but in the dark the draft
goes curling upward past my window sill.
Blue shadows flow, each hedge a tethered raft,
the trees pale islands, beaches of street light,
and one lost bird, marooned here for the night.
Pale notes of him come filtering through the leaves,
thrush in blues cadence, singing it so tired,
birdsong in minor keys, as if he grieves
the false dawn, all his singing uninspired.
He is the bluesbird, bliss forced by instinct
turned inward though inexorably linked
to light, yet able somehow to express
through his unwilling music, emptiness.