from his high perch
Thrush
sings the morning, from
an aerial
upon a chimney-stack –
above
the abstract foliage.
More than a
plump, warm,
speckled, dust-brown
body – he’s
a voice
awakening the city
folk
to what
daily lost but eternal
hour of the incipient.
likewise, at dusk,
Blackbird his brother:
plumage
losing
in the dark – his bright bill
sings
the sun to setting.
And the air is his!
For us,
that song
articulates
the space that was
before towns were.
It heralds,
retrospectively,
the sunk
emergence of our dwellings
from the greenwood –
from the green
world, dark and other.
For his bill is golden,
though the wings are swart.