bare, and bent and grey, the air
is sweet and lovely. In this spring or fall no sign
but thrush riding the brown and acorn-like wake
of the king, hovering
Leopold-like in the swing of the sky,
moving in the rush, her mouth attached around
a red apple in the tailfeathers’ generous spreading
plate. And yes, says thrush,
her mouth yearning and satisfied, while air
bears the silent couple, falcon and thrush, recognized in branches below the crook that take their shape
in dreamlike puzzles and say to the silent air, This
is
how we speak: the thrush with her beakfull,
we with our curved
bent language as clear as any leaves,
her mouth on the moving apple, his brown spread rudder
float in silent ecstasy
through the light blue.
The forest’s limbs bending below describe a myriad
arc.