Three ivory-white McCoy singing-birds
singing – I could say – at the sun and see
what notes they make, fat notes wobbling out
on actual lines, a smiling egg-yolk sun
just bulging up around a rooster on a fence.
Their white ceramic breasts bursting, beaks
wide, the start of one of those old cartoons
cartoonists made too beautiful to laugh at.
Imagine them improbable blue with all
the slapstick and stupid pratfalls yet to come.
      
But my kitchen window when it's open
looks west, looks at the windows next door.
It's afternoon and real birds sing. It's spring.
And when real birds sing even windows go.
In the dream it's green and yards we play in
go on like green connected days farther
than we could ever guess there is to go.