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.