or  We Have No Knowledge of Such a World

A Winter Wren sustained on last summer’s snowmelt
lends his voice to our fence to measure days’ ends
and starts. In order still bound to sunlight’s lost edge,
he calls, cries, takes his post, cries out again, descends;
and how are both still here–the wren who felt
wind’s last breath spin through man’s junkyard,
saw before his very eyes, and mine, assemblage
of all our scattering parts into that damn jet engine,

fusualage, wings, emergency exit, tray table?
No room for envy in birdsong. His psalm able,
beak sharp (one clean pull ‘cross one mountaintop),
beckons godspeed, and echoing sentient crystals, says:
A thousand years to complete one good thought?
no big deal given these endless dies days.