The brrr, brrrr, brrr of the pinetop warbler,
like an old-fashioned desk phone,
rasps like a Robert Musil.
The trees in terminal blossom
flake flesh-colored petals onto dried daffs.
Under the overgrown hedge
lies an abandoned nest, shreds of tinsel
woven into recycled tweed.
These bespoke days, the whip-stripes at sunset
fire the western sky
with some symphony of old grievance.
This morning I peered into the whitewashed
courtyard. Two robins sat the gate,
ignoring each other. At the top of the telephone pole,
what seemed a song was an alarm call.