This is the morning after the singing bird
Awoke the sleeping crow—a dream of a lovely
Voice. He blinks, tilts his head, remembers
And desires. I will sing! But sound rumbles
Out in a tumbling clack, black beak wide.
I will shift my dark shape—that’s the flaw:
I am not that, so I must become it, and he hunches
On the branch, fluffs and shakes, sets his mind’s
Eye on bright bars of color and delicate feet,
But light disappears on him still, sturdy on the branch.
It’s the day, he says, that makes me what I am!
I can be both at once, the beautiful feather
And the considered hop, fashion a complicated tune—
Waning into night, I’ll shine and sing as I wish:
Closing my eyes I’ll build, become the song.
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