—for
Katie Ketchum
The
song of the nightingale comes in
shimmering
in a bright soprano voice
as
if having lived knowing the belly sounds.
The
first few phrases are like that,
clear-crisp,
like bells over snowfields—
Not
only are we observing the nightingale,
we
are testing the air with wings.
The
way the nightingale flies,
how
we view the bird,
how
it views itself like a concerto—
A
cadenza of towering lines.
The
melody drops out
and
the deeper rhythm comes in—
The
heart of the bird.
Think
of how snowy peaks mirror the sky,
purifying
the foothills.
The
multitudes of foothills
&
the song of the nightingale are one.
How
the dancer contracts, lifts up—
defies
gravity for a moment. Fermatta
Slatted
light falls
into the eyes of the sun.
I
believe, I believe said the bird migrating
to Africa
where
feathered black notes dress the snows of Killimanjaro.
We
flurry over the arpeggio of leaves
you/I/we/yes
to
the night itself singing solo:
a
concentration of notes on the upper spectrum.
Without
legs, the piano won’t resonate
or
nest in the branches to lay small eggs.
Hatching
in our ears, the piano’s children
direct
us to the songlines; her voice,
an
undercurrent of grace notes and rippling water.
A
leaf caught in the wind
takes
instruction from the flight of angels.
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