Grace Bauer

I play these concertos
for myself, but the birds
don’t seem to hear it
 
that way. On this first
warm April afternoon,
they swarm the feeder, driven
 
less by hunger than a mad
dance I imagine
the harpsichord blaring
 
from my rickety porch
inspires. Do they think
that music emerging
 
from my black box is their own?
Can I claim their response
proves birds are not
 
Romantic but Baroque?
Silly speculation
but Spring inspires such
 
digressions from what we
have called common sense.
Let’s allow ourselves
 
such uncommon flights
of fancy. Such senseless
belief in song.