That bird just described itself.
Three hundred explanations got up and walked around
but always came back to the same place
The canalhouses gazed into their own reflections
and hungered for the lives in their windows.
Wind kissed her and watched her walk away.
The night held her hand,
and the trees attempted to persuade her,
and it was the moon, I believe,
that nosed into her hair.
The song heard itself,
and stretched out on the purple mattress above the garden,
warm and safe and young, for now.