Mark Vogel
I compose myself
in slow stall in moderate rain as a gust
hits and the trees sway and threaten to break,
and I am newly aware of how rare
a vision of purity is by the bright yellow
canary named Stubs, born with one foot
crumpled into a claw,
who, despite the storm pounding the roof,
chirps one essential note, then pauses,
then releases the next slow single contribution,
then a string, the first four notes of a trill, tentative,
as if he must collect energy in his canary heart,
before he releases restraint and launches
into full song with sustained fast flow as
a song river until it’s impossible to remember
how his tentative start ever became
this full concert—beautiful proof unified art
exists beyond human control, more perfect
(at least today) than all remembered canary songs.
In this rain made powerful, another gust makes
the trees sway and threaten to break,
and I compose myself as Stub’s song focuses
the afternoon in this rental house in Ottumwa,
Iowa, which for once is the ultimate center
of the universe, as my companion, Stubs,
sings free and pure as any canary—better even,
as if he is perfect, delighted he is alive, here, gentled
by his own music while the afternoon congeals
in moderate rain that softens hard ground,
surely brings worms to the surface. Then
he pauses, and I too stall, waiting for a breath,
in a quiet made rich and layered, as I listen
close for all the help I can get.
I compose myself
in slow stall in moderate rain as a gust
hits and the trees sway and threaten to break,
and I am newly aware of how rare
a vision of purity is by the bright yellow
canary named Stubs, born with one foot
crumpled into a claw,
who, despite the storm pounding the roof,
chirps one essential note, then pauses,
then releases the next slow single contribution,
then a string, the first four notes of a trill, tentative,
as if he must collect energy in his canary heart,
before he releases restraint and launches
into full song with sustained fast flow as
a song river until it’s impossible to remember
how his tentative start ever became
this full concert—beautiful proof unified art
exists beyond human control, more perfect
(at least today) than all remembered canary songs.
In this rain made powerful, another gust makes
the trees sway and threaten to break,
and I compose myself as Stub’s song focuses
the afternoon in this rental house in Ottumwa,
Iowa, which for once is the ultimate center
of the universe, as my companion, Stubs,
sings free and pure as any canary—better even,
as if he is perfect, delighted he is alive, here, gentled
by his own music while the afternoon congeals
in moderate rain that softens hard ground,
surely brings worms to the surface. Then
he pauses, and I too stall, waiting for a breath,
in a quiet made rich and layered, as I listen
close for all the help I can get.