More Leaves of Grass

The full noon trill

James Bell

Among the thrills and spills of meaning that came from you
I think of blueberries and guns speaking without wanting answers
at the high noon of day
when nobody is fooled by shadows.

I wonder this because, like you, I can,
like the bird high above me
cruising the wind and know its not going
anywhere in particular and only inhabits the air
in defiance of gravity just because it can, stays
up there, just after noon today, as a form of defence.

Here by the chair where I sit is a table
still soaked in rainwater globules. A wasp has landed
as the world moves round the sun which emerges
from a cloud and the wasp, for the moment, is floodlit
as it sticks in a drop of water, flutters and buzzes
its annoyance and distress while I look on not willing
to risk the sting.

I see the tiny drama end as the sun again slips behind a cloud
and the high flying bird is swallowed too as the wasp
cuts loose and takes itself wearily away.

Walt, it is a wonderful place today -
it is barely a minute after noon and already the trill has been sharp,
the world has dramatically changed
for one of its creatures has averted tragedy.

I wonder if you knew that you had already passed the full-noon trill,
had already moved into the afternoon.
I think not, just as I merely dwell on the question at a garden table
as the sun continues to shine
and me and the clouds continue our movement.

The wasp has now long gone and the bird never reappeared.