The spire cranes. Its statue is an aviary.

From the stone nest it does not let the feathery

Carved birds blunt their striking throats on the salt gravel,

Pierce the spilt sky with diving wing in weed and heel

An inch in froth. Chimes cheat the prison spire, pelter

In time like outlaw rains on that priest, water,

Time for the swimmers’ hands, music for silver lock

And mouth. Both note and plume plunge from the spire’s

hook. Those craning birds are choice for you, songs that jump back

To the built voice, or fly with winter to the bells,

But do not travel down dumb wind like prodigals.