My grandmother always strained
to hear the sinsonte's (mockingbird's)
trill, this gunpowder-chested canticle
in the blushed light of the afternoon
before dusk, a yearning to decipher
the individual notes: "Él estilo, niño."
Mockingbird language stitched, stolen
from other birds - a court jester, he
who knew the ways of heart language,
or at least kept the court amused.
Sinsonte, el cantar de los cantores...
The way a bird whistles a thousand
meanings to one need, one desire.
This lost melancholia about a child
quieting to hear his own harsh song.