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What a small many-greyed grapple of agitation
the mockingbird is, jittery on a thin branch
covered in berries but leafless, keeping one eye
and then the other on me, shifting its position,
unsettled by what my next move might be.
But at the opposite solstice this bird's songs
are the life of leaves in which he's an invisible singer,
sending melody after melody abroad, sweetening
space -- even after midnight -- with mimic music,
making the dark itself less dreadful, building
a nest of notes to feel at home in, though it must
be hard with so much to say, so many tunes
swirling through the honeycomb of its bones,
edging out of the white furnace of every feather
to swell its lone throat, setting its voice-box on fire.
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