...Of such pauses...
All week a small bird
we can't identify
has run up a flag
of fine notes
to the morning air
from bare branches
of dogwood.
Without request,
unpaid for, through walls
and windows closed
to the still cold air,
its unhesitant panache unfurls
from a body small as the bold
yellow throat of crocus
below him,
a style bigger
than containable, together
of earth and sky,
the ribbon of a route
the heart can turn to...