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.