The white-framed window, Scarlatti
on the harpsichord and somewhere,
it seems not inside or outside the room,
a pheasant calls to where a life,
sorting various columns of words
and breath, is discerning a vocation,
the wide sweep under lights of a mop
on the floor. The long earth testing
a trajectory from one village
to the next, for winter imagination
has few friends, little or no conversation.
The altar and choir lamps are lit but dully.
The cat's independent ears take in both
sides, the invitation to walk among soaking
bushes, among the rain-streaked trees.