The Muse of Concord
In summer woods, her springtime voice matured
as beckoning notes that mystify—a creature
thrumming when at rest, Tee-chur, Tee-chur,
but sweetly lyrical in flight. A bird
impetuous and speedy, songs assured,
she could elude, confound this woodland seeker,
who sensed the ovenbird was nature’s speaker,
though, he knew, she never said a word.
Until the chill of fall, he would be sure
the warbler calling from its hidden site
was midday’s sonic, acrobatic blur
that chased the sun, then dipped into the night.
Although her voices faded with the fall,
on winter days he still could hear her call.
by Ralph La Rosa, from Sonnet Stanzas
Editor’s Note: Sometimes the birds lead us on a merry chase. Who is calling? Where did she go? Such tricksters. Even the sonnet form can’t truly capture a bird’s elusive teasing.
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