Behind me, songbirds call
from the low-hanging trees
and dead-ending alley;
the seagull soars far higher,
emits its deathlike warble
and falls with wings outstretched
like an unfurling scroll dropped by God;
the crossing signal noise,
one-toned and brief, hums
intermittently beneath each,
just as it did when the street
was chalk-filled and confused
without cars. Green, yellow, red
which remained. Green, yellow,
red, the figure of white appeared
walking, and no one else did, but still
it appeared, its theme music
eerie with ignorance.
I wonder if the songbirds use it as a metronome.
