Die Zwitscher-Machine

 

My birds do not twitter much

rather, on insubstantial currents such

swarthy ravens slide above the hill

and tumbling on the sky shake out their skill

before a raucous mating in the noontime light;

or put the pigeons on the bluffs to flight

and singling out one victim from the pack

stoop down to break its iridescent back.

 

My birds do not twitter much

instead like peacock will the last light clutch

with savage cries or sharp protest the rising moon

as omen of these summer hours ending soon,

before the molting and the fall.

And from aloft the falcon shrills her call.

Intense on beating wings above the field,

she hangs, where rigid quarry holds concealed.

 

My birds do not twitter much

but gliding down the troughs the seabirds touch

a kiss upon the sea with outstretched tip

of wing as they bank across a swell to slip

alee and then they come swift past our bows,

with stiff-winged flight that disavows

our earth-bound need for thrumming boats,

to glide away with silence in their throats.

 

Or from the mists one loon unwinds his cry

to thread the needled north with I

and claim the world his lake affords.

A single thrush intoned three simple chords,

so stunned an April dawning in my ears

that still his echo rings as sunset nears.

It's thus each sound heard shakes me such

my birds do not twitter much.