What the Birds Know

As nighttime shrinks and days stretch long

they come back to the woods and fields:

the mockingbird, the brazen jay,

the yellow finch, and whippoorwill—

unperceived, from far away.

Not steered by fear or politics

they search the woods and meadows, where

they gather bits of last year’s straw,

tiny twigs, discarded string,

to build new nests of grass and sticks.

Disagreements are but few and rare:

for only when they’re trespassed on,

when other birds invade their space,

their rights impinged—do they give chase.

How odd these days to coexist…

it seems to brush against the grain

of how we humans choose to dwell;

our instincts turn to other things—

it's rare to pause and contemplate

  and rarer still when calm remains.

A warm wind rises from the south,

the dappled sun shines through the tree,

a joyous trill burst through the air

from tiny bird on bayberry.

She sings without a cause or care

it echoes through the windowpane,

reverberates in amplitude—

and I, in turn, stop everything

to listen to her song of Spring.

© Ginny Brannan 2018