One
A rustle like someone feathering
The pages of an old paperback
And a ragged-colored goldfinch,
Male, small, rather recently fledged
From the look of things, appeared
Within distracted awareness
That had been reading about a new artist,
Marvelously pretentious.
Two
Thunder, thunder and a dozen finches
The following afternoon
Over the moss-addled lily pond.
Motorboats turned circles in the lake
Sounding much like angry hornets.
The brain confuses these sorts of things,
Makes a half-hearted attempt at art
Out of knowing not knowing what is.
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