PERFECT PITCH

The day
rolls over on its hip,
the shadow of its back
inks the water's edge with night.

The bough
drained of sap, lifeless,
hangs against the sky--
a black fork of lightning. 

The spider
purls its sticky strings with a hitch,
and tunes the fork
to seize the music and the flies
in perfect pitch.

 

August 1989