Birding by Ear

The poem requires a mind

that finds meaning, even divination, 

in language. Non-fiction, 

up to academic standards, demands

evidence. Nothing less will do.

Most of us read fiction and this

needs a taste for action, motivation.

Lately, as have you, I have

thought about our war and its purpose, 

motivation. But I have also closely

listened to the wood thrush, analyzed

its song like a tune by T.S. Monk

or J.S. Bach concerto. One belongs

to the loved ones who ostracize us, too.

A robin looks, hops, pecks, is never calm.
It is the flute-like tones, yes, but mostly
the patient, meditative clarity
of the thrush that enchants. One wants
to be that bird. How will we attain
calm clarity for the species Homo sapiens?
Through the discipline of asking questions.

Mimics, woodpeckers, sing-songers, hawks,
chippers and trillers, whistlers, name-sayers,
loons, owls and a dove, high pitchers,
wood warblers and a word-warbling wren.
Unusual vocalizations.
What did the wood thrush sing
teaching its young thrush meanings?

Too much commotion is the commonest of mortals’ sins.
Peace has many faces,
the wood thrush in the canopy is one.
A word of praise here, an encouraging word there.
A wraith, a ghost against an impatient man,

verbose, unsure of the path, always longing.

Nothing satisfies like the thrush's song.