Oiseau Triste

by Don McKay

What is the sad bird singing?
“Something in the interrogative mood,”
says the piano, “some koan,” and the violin
with the slept–in–suit and smoky baritone
concurs. Outside, someone scratches
on a stone, writing out a point
or knapping in the style of Homo habilis, esteemed
inventor of instruments.
The five–note bird flies
in and out of opera, in
and out of flux, ferrying music
back to noise and noise,
spruced up, to a picnic in Algonquin Park.
Later, the cricket–ratchet creature.
Later, excoriating chords.
Was there a word for rock
ringing? We live between eroding raindrops
and accelerating clocks. The piano
lifts its lid to show its wire–and–hammer
heart.