I can’t read music

little black birds perched on
electrical lines of life’s landscape
scoring variegated moods;
only way the dots make sense

waving patterns joyous
gentle movements calming
springing off they’re turbulent
all over the place, discordant

I read the song wrong sometimes
when dots are hunkered down
I wish they would rise in cadence
sing either alleluias or dirges

my birds like freedom, entertainment
electric cables mean containment
so when the scorer waves her pen
they alight on lands far beyond