ilare uccello calunniato

      

Caught in the moment,

there is no way of knowing

who might have blinked first –

the old man or his visitant,

the bright, crested

ambivalent bird. A few

scattered objects

implying a workspace,

the room is otherwise

unfocused beyond

the reciprocal stare

of two survivors.

The eyes of one are stoical,

but lit by a sense

that all is not determined.

The other’s are steeled,

impenetrable – the maligned

harbinger of spring

or a bird whose piping

mnemonic call

is like a final summons.