Plainsong

If such winds throughout the trees 
mid-December, shaking out our golden hour 
can exult this much tintabulation, 
why can’t I? 
                       And why not beside the sparrows, 
their jubilations, a twittered harrowing? 
Why am I not accompanying the birds, 
the winds, all of us together now, one sound?

The sky’s vaulted dome my audience, 
a blue compliance, all attention— 
where else should I lose my song, a dying fall?

My little musics, instrument, accompaniment.