There is a twig on a tree in my back yard
that the wind uses to scratch the sky
and every day when I come home
a tough lit­tle finch is sit­ting
there all puffed out and think­ing. I’m
try­ing to fig­ure out what he is think­ing
and why he has to think it on the tip of the twig
that the wind uses to scratch the sky.
Perhaps I should men­tion that it is win­ter
and if the finch had any sense he would be
some place warm with its loved ones
in­stead of bal­anced on the edge of nowhere.
If the finch had any sense he would be
do­ing some­thing with his life in­stead of
sit­ting around think­ing so much.

Perhaps he doesn’t have any sense.
In the shadow of this steel mill
any crea­ture could go mad. I’ve
heard that there is quick­sil­ver in the
very air. When I fix my din­ner I can still
see the finch on the tip of the twig. He
must not be hun­gry.

At night he is yet un­moved al­though
the twig still writes the sky
and the wax­ing moon shi­nes be­hind it all
like sumi-e. Now I know what he is think­ing.
He is the one do­ing the writ­ing, not me.

v2.0

There is a twig on a tree in my back yard
that the wind uses to scratch the sky
and every day when I come home
a tough lit­tle finch is sit­ting
there all puffed out and think­ing. I’m
try­ing to fig­ure out what he is think­ing
and why he has to think it on the tip of the twig
that the wind uses to scratch the sky.
Perhaps I should men­tion that it is win­ter
and if the finch had any sense he would be
some place warm with its loved ones
in­stead of bal­anced on the edge of nowhere.
If the finch had any sense he would be
do­ing some­thing with his life in­stead of
sit­ting around think­ing so much.

Perhaps he doesn’t have any sense.
In the shadow of this steel mill
any crea­ture could go mad. I’ve
heard that there is quick­sil­ver in the
very air. When I fix my din­ner I can still
see the finch on the tip of the twig. He
must not be hun­gry.

At night he is yet un­moved al­though
the twig still writes the sky
and the wax­ing moon shi­nes be­hind it all
like sumi-e. Then,
he is gone.

The wind stills, the moon
slides be­hind the smoke­stacks and
I wait for my own per­fect mo­ment to leave.


I’ve been try­ing to write a terzanelle for a long time but I can’t never get it to work none. This was an­other at­tempt but it came out bet­ter in free verse. Any sug­ges­tions are ap­pre­ci­ated.

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