Et cetera, began the balladeer,

and plucked his lyre of mischief and panache;

he played a tune that mystified the ear

and strummed all cogitation to a hush.

Et cetera. A February moon

spilled light upon a blind white turf of snow.

The drowsy balladeer forsook his tune,

abrupted his consoling rigmarole.

Some minor agitation in the trees

(a murmur of morning? a report of spring?)

gave pause to his elation, broke his dream:

was it a sudden vivifying breeze,

or else, a darker thought, on blackest wing—

a mouse caught by a hawk, a stifled scream?