Out of its craw, out of its flimsy trellis

of rib and cords of tendon, out of live flesh

copiously puckered by dark quill darkly

so iridescent,

the red-winged blackbird fashions its art. From wind

shuttling among warm mirages of marsh,

from air sizzling inside its instrumental

lungs, an orchestra

is engineered to orchestrate the thermals

caressing your body just now. Tomorrow?

Yesterday? Neither of sheer consequence here:

climactic moment

of neither coming nor going, when breaThends,

before song begins.