The red-wing in the blighted ash
drops his tail, spreads his wings,
sings two notes, and waits,
showing off his shoulders,
for a mate, airborne somewhere
over Maryland, snow still here
on shaded, wooded slopes
in this peculiar scenery of March,
me in a thrift chair on dead grass,
him in the ash, guarding our territories,
him against rivals, me against madness.
Who will help me?
What is joy?
This day. This life.
This song. This empty air.
This season. This passing season.
