Five-Finger Exercise

All day at home, alone in the winter half-light,

I watched the wild birds feeding, coming and going,

their flight light as ashes over the yellow coals

of cracked corn, of millet and linnet seed.

And because of a darkness feeding in me, I saw

in bare branches the rags of a frock coat flying,

the charred pages of hymnals settling through smoke,

candle wax cooling, becoming the breast of a sparrow.

And as I waited there, five small blackbirds as quick

as quarter notes touched down at once, striking

a perfect chord at the cold, high end of the keyboard,

and it frightened them, and off they flew together.