Birdsong

Sweet mute bird.
The cold season
Stays your tongue
And dampens
The fluttering
In your chest.
Yet you greet each day
With anticipation —
Awaiting
That first performance.

Wood Thrush

The voices that fade away
And the smiles that turn into looks of derision
For affection to be met by anger
And goodwill viewed with suspicion
When I am tired of humanity
When I am tired of being human
I listen to the wood thrush’s song
Who sings so beautifully, even alone