The usual is there,
nondescript trees opened like umbrellas,
pessimist always expecting rain,
chickadees whose folding and unfolding wings
suggest the shuffling and reshuffling
of the cardsharp’s deck;
nothing noteworthy except the beginning saxophonist
blowing with the efficacy of wolves addicted to pigs,
blowing down those poorly built houses,
the leaves off the trees, the water in
another direction, the ace of spades
into the ground with the cardsharp’s bad intentions.
The discord and stridency set off landslides
and avalanches; his playing moves the earth
not lo
