While Practicing The Piano

Out of the iron, wood, felt, strings,

ebony, and ivory, I sent out staffs

of notes to dance about the yard

and down the street–Chopin, Beethoven,

Bach, Rachmaninoff.  Upon the staffs

of bottlebrush swarmed feathered notes

who sent their counterpoint straight back–

finch, sparrow, scrub jay, and mockingbird–

to dance about the yard and through

the windows, swirling about the room.

*

I took it artists taking joy

in other artist’s work until I learned

the science of bird song–of territory

claims, of mating rituals, and I–

competitor.  Yet as I now recall:

what moves your heart moves mine.

I feel such science strange

and think that joy is joy

although contained in feathered heart

and sung by alien tongue.

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