Aria

 

After the funeral, a bird—

 

frantic or ecstatic or gone mad

 

in the rhododendron thickets—

 

hammered open my night,

 

full of verve,

 

sure of his pitch,

 

the sweltering room

 

levitated in miracle

 

and good news.

 

 

Then swift and deafening,

 

a spring downpour

 

silenced him.