That song comes from sorrow there is no doubt.
Bullfinches in ancient times had eyes put out
so they would sing more sweet. Think of
those black beads dropped to earth coming
to seed flowers turning inward every single
one of them without its sight.
Stories say that moving in the wind they
made up song as if nothing had been lost and
this rings long into the night. Every sound
we hear turns to a bigger one and each is
true. We add our own until it is the first
din ever heard, the way poetry begins.
She is a wood warbler
into madness. She
from milky shell earthen brown blotches
not Rorschach not robin but warbler.
Open-mouthed swallow of hard-
chipped notes, calls smothered
her smoke-gray chamber of throat.
Dis/appearing between branches
tail feathers and body dainty clawed toes
white lines half-circle her eyes
sense but can’t see
at the center of night movements
misreads the body
responds on its own.