Sweet, sweet, king bird’s call
floats to alight softer than a lure
pricks mirrored evening on a mountain pool
to glint at an unseen eye, its fall
infused with life by the nimrod’s want.

Heart’s tethered spark drifts down
the valley’s early shaded rift,
low light milking the now blind pond,
doubling odds the hidden mind
will leave the fly’s red fire unmet.
 
Above, another line loops out
to wire finely through thin air
a sun tipped string of dying dashes,
piquant notes on life du jour
telegraphed from crown to crown.
 
Until the reel’s whirring click
and rolling silver spool twin
the scrolling globe and last cicada’s drum
to wind crosswires to home’s
unending queue of tasks undone.

Yet clarion flame of sound bells on
once more, to name and name again,
from scarlet breast inflamed by muted green,
just this: that it can call this name
and by it fold the day into its end.

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