The Avian Rhapsody*

The Avian Rhapsody

 

(A Rhapsody Experienced in the First Light of a Better Day)

 

More than the hairy of the trees, you wander on the grass,

Where there are dangers in your day and pitfalls you must pass

You pause by stumps and hide in blooms; you dawdle in the weeds

Yet seem assured about yourself and where your boldness leads

A scarlet mark below your crown suggests you would be known

But golden shafts are hidden in the wings that are not shown

You flicker on the grass you love; you glitter in the shade

You disappear into the day, and yet you do not fade.

 

Oh, blue-gray, black, and silver soul, your breast is wedding lace

And, in your flutter, I find faith and truth upon your face

 

No wrong can seep into your heart, no sin can stain your wing

You are the forest’s angel meek, a shy and blissful thing

 

I wish that I were like to you, a small and tender bird

That slips the notice of the night but in the light, is heard.

 

The berry bush is full of grace, and, in its bosom, hides a bird -

I know this, for I once by chance, saw birdly things as they occurred:

A tiny beak peaked from the leaves, then disappeared into the shade

To giggle in its queer delight and tremble in the mirth it made.

 

And there you gleam upon a branch so fine,

A lappet moth might break it with its wing

And how you gaze at me with open heart!

I half-expect the mourning doves to sing!

You are God’s crested harlequin of day

The one “most happy in his happiness”

You mock what is insensible beneath,

Yet deign to be the love that I confess.

 

Let me be what I must be,

Let me fly where I might flee,

Let me stand where you can see -

 

I am your little bird

 

Let me do what I must do,

Let me have discretion, too,

Let me act the action through -

 

I am your little bird

 

Let me love, when love has lost,

Let me double its dear cost,

Let my heart by love be tossed -

 

I am your little bird.

 

Where do birds go when they fly? What trees are their homes today?

Do they live from perch to perch? And could they live another way?

 

They live in oak trees by the lake

And elms that rise above the hill

 

They sometimes wander far afield

And always go what ways they will

 

Where do birds go when they die? What takes up their tiny souls?

Do they find their meaning in the act of filling tiny holes?

 

Birds are the cursive in life’s book,

The ink that makes a day seem true

 

For they are warbled words of God

And feathered parts of me and you.