The confusing conference of the birds

The confusing conference of the birds
in the oak reminds me of the dialect
of mystics. In the library, I selected
yellow books, the first, second and third

gospels, the silly scriptures of a weird
prophet. The confusing water reflects
the spectacle of sky, the water collects
the lights of heaven that have been shared

by whatever gods. Do birds know poetry?
Do trees write psalms? Do the frogs argue
with each other about doctrine? Geometry

of stars and architecture of rooms continue
to puzzle my understanding, the symmetry
of inverse intervals doesn't seem true.