Not Sigurd's nuthatches
clattering in the brush,
but diamond vehicles,
their ribcages sprung with light
as they sing
the eight canonical hours

passerines
weightless after migration-
magnetic particles
of iron oxide
in their retinas-
spirits fired with blood

as on St. Kilda,
where if you put your ear
to the carbon-dating,
you hear the wrens
settle like small rain
on the tree-rings.