354 – Warble


In the bleak midwinter rain
we stopped along the cedar’d path
to listen. The moss grew quiet
on the bark of the evergreens.
The nuthatches, juncos, jays
you said you new by sound
were silent. You breathed
in Latin vapor–Parulidae, Sitta, Sturnella
–hoping to coax forth a fluted call
from some warbled throat. We waited
with chill hands, searching
for a song we could not hear,
that would not come yet
to human ears.

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