The Singers

for Boyce They are threatening to leave us          the nimble-throated singers the little murderers with the quick pulses They  perch at the ends of   bare branches          their tails are ragged and pitiful          the long green feathers are fallen out          They  go on eating and eating last autumn's yellow melia berries They do not care that you approach          cold corpses rot in the grass          in the reeds The gray-shouldered crows hobble about          the wren barely a mouthful          cocks her pert tail and threatens to slaughter the white-footed cat in the bushes They do not understand that they are dying They are threatening to leave us          how quickly we forget the way they taught us how to play our voices opening soul to weightlessness          like the Spartan poet singing under the burden of  his old bones to the chorus girls with their honey songs and their holy voices how he wished he could scoot like a kingfisher lightly over the flower of  the waves          who boasted I know the tunes of every bird but I Alcman found my words and song in the tongue of the strident partridge Where will we find songs          when the sleek-headed mallards are gone          who chase each other around the pond the reluctant duck and the lovesick drake The way she turns her head to the side to scold him whack  whack  whack  whack  whack the way her boyfriend chases off  his rival and then swims back reeb  reeb with feeble reassurances          the way he sits on top of  her          the way she flaps her wings to keep above water          the way they look pleased with themselves          wagging their tails          smoothing each feather back in its right place They are threatening to leave          but you may still catch them saying goodbye          stealthed in the cedar and cypress at dawn          in the dark clarity between sleep and waking A run of  five notes on a black flute another          and another          buried deep in the mix how many melodies can the air hold And what they sing          so lovely and so meaningless may urge itself  upon you          with the ache of   something  just beyond the point of  being remembered the trace of a brave thought in the face of sadness