Just a fly by night is what she said: he
called
himself a nightingale—he
would, of course.
The early bird, he named her; she was
appalled,
and said, He
was a worm who slouched on moss.
This was their way, for better or for worse,
and ten years inched to twenty, and then the nest
was empty, not a sprog in sight. The curse
continued silently, each thinking, Best
this way, and hoping, We’re of a feather,
after all, and soon
enough we’ll moult
beyond recognition—then: He’ll never
fly off in the night; or, She’ll bolt
and leave me free at
last. But then one final season
a little peep, and all is still, without a reason.
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