The lower thumb is an A—Guidonian hand.
Point to a place that equals a note,
be it hurdy gurdy or treecreeper.

Not the grove it inhabits, but the gray cap
contrasting with olive back, the hand crank,
and the strong, black-bordered eyebrow stripe.

Each tone is a joint, the gamut of her landing strip,
Each winter, orange-cheeked in Amazon basins
Each blue tit, the same split chamber, a different song.

The iris is brown in immature birds in fall.
Rosin wheels bow the strings, whose phrases are
abrupt and monotonous. Like woodchat strikes.

Solfeggios are repeated 40 times per minute.
Take my craw. Take my last unkeyed drone.
The red is less obvious at a distance.