There he was again, our perennial bird,
Flying, from one branch to that other one
On an adjacent tree,
Like a pendulum, like an Omega watch;
Not even science is so accurate.
It’s a week now, I said,
He is like someone with an obsession,
Doing what’s done because of a need
That, to us observers, must remain obscure.
Maybe he’s waiting for the alarm to ring
So he can stop.