Mockingbird

The mockingbird no longer

sings at midnight from

the antenna lifted high

into the bright fullness

of the moon.

Who can say why or when

I lost the thread of

the unexpected spooling

from my heart, my

mockingbird creating

each note, each run,

each measure.

I lost the flight of each

momentous change

in each second, and watched

the mockingbird leave

bare the arms of an antenna,

spare and useless now

against a setting moon.