Feathers atop leaves coat the trees. A wild plumage spills down
in strong weather and the ground turns into a riotous smear.
Guano glues down the loose cobblestones and lightens
the blackened stonework of the church; its colored glass windows
open so as to fill the apse with constant wing and flash. Here the hymns
are hollows carved in air—the holiest sound silence—a respite
from the endless call and gossip of village life.
The green grocer lines up baskets of just-dead bugs, tiny sour oranges,
elderberries, and black-oil sunflower seeds.
At the sidewalk café hapless worms struggle in small buckets
placed exactly at the center of each table. The cold-eyed waitress
turns her head and smooths her hair before tucking a twig into her apron pocket.
The air swells and fades with ceaseless small flutters and the cumbrous rush
of larger wings. Every height turns restless, a perch
for palpitating bodies. Each roof tile watches. The gutters gaze direct.
Even the clouds have eyes.