The Wood Thrushes' Song
Migrating northward, the wood thrushes pause
Within these Ozark woods. Perched, and boldly
Declaring their presence—their intention—
With a soft, airy—whit! The woods resound
With whit! Whit-Whit!—and though their simple song
May be single-minded (I’m here, be mine!),
It is orchestral—the whole being greater
Than the sum of its parts—for in its way
Each whit! is unique to its intended.
I walk, I listen, I appreciate
Knowing the woods will soon be without whit.
There will be a brief aural lapse before
Other songs of procreation—urgent,
Primal, understandable—fill the void.
Poetry by jim
Read 35 times
Written on 2021-05-04 at 04:23
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