I hear,
from the bench where I sit in the woods,
six or seven distinct voices:
High-pitched trills,
Consonant thrum,
Wandering warbles,
Insistent monosyllabic bursts.
The knock of a woodpecker against the tree opposite me.
Each bird speaks its own language,
sounds exactly like what it is,
no shame in a higher pitch
or shorter song.
Each bird, exactly that bird’s voice;
Each bird, exactly bird-sized.
Glorying in the self it was made to be,
Glorying its maker.
Written at Corhaven, 10/27/2021 on the most lovely of days of solitude.
