THE bird that flies to climates crisper
Over its feathers wears feathers of sound
Protecting itself in a coat of whispers
Against the silence that stones the ground.
In the long miles between song and hearer
Where the distance’s bones lie disinterred
I now overhear as the wings come nearer
The whispers of God instructing the bird
And see Him put out the branch of a finger
Where the bird sits down and begins its cheers:
The buds push out to look at the singer,
The blades of grass stand up like ears.
Oh, truly now, it is gayer and warmer,
Tomorrow’s the only dark bush on the land
And full of its doubts, but God the performer
Is walking about with the bird in His hand.