NUMBER, PLEASE

2 4 Y N U M B E R , P L E A S E W I L L I A M L O G A N The brrr, brrrr, brrr of the pinetop warbler, like an old-fashioned desk phone, rasps like a Robert Musil. The trees in terminal blossom flake flesh-colored petals onto dried da√s. Under the overgrown hedge lies an abandoned nest, shreds of tinsel woven into recycled tweed. These bespoke days, the whip-stripes at sunset fire the western sky with some symphony of old grievance. This morning I peered into the whitewashed courtyard. Two robins sat the gate, ignoring each other. At the top of the telephone pole, what seemed a song was an alarm call. ...