A rumor on the Rialto,
a bird is coming, hawk-hungry
but no squeal alive
to warn us, a silent bird
wings made of memory
spread out to shield us
from motherly sunshine,
and there we’ll be
glum in the shade,
quiet as music
with no one to talk to,
not even ourselves.
They think it’s winter
but I know it’s longer than that,
I have seen its feathers fall
now and then across the path,
in shadow, no sun glare,
easier to pick out
the threads in the fabric,
a bird that we thought!
will scare us to sleep.

8 October 2022