In the still cold, freshwater-crisp
dusk, oaks push a birth of leaflets.
Out too late, past the park’s hours
watching the thrusted rockets of song sparrows
spear the roughage with their bodies’
brown crud. The quiet is packed with lust.
Shit-thick scraps are being gathered
for the homemaking: last Autumn’s
trampled tawny, wire bread bag ties, selvage
of moldy straw they will whirl into
cradles. Heron-tense, evening fishes
for the original star. Wing shiver and cheeping
rev down in the undergrowth, where a bridle
path unravels through breezy lung-scalding chill:
voice of April fiddling at the pan-pipe cattails, luring me out
with her moodswing charms, her reddened fingers.