“In the split second of eternity, what do we know
          that isn’t before speaking?”   —James Grabill

Near the end of his life, Charlie Parker
had nowhere to go. He rode the subway

to the end, then rode it back again.
He stood in front of Birdland in the rain

with nothing left to say. Music plays
inside our home, in mellow tones, Black Cat

purrs a wheezy tune, cockatiels whistle and buzz;
my husband's hands clasp ebony and mahogany,

feather nylon strings. His fingers move
of their own accord, articulate a chord

to say what he can’t say, while outside,
a red-tailed hawk completes a fence post in the rain.