"This poem brings to mind crisp early-autumn mornings as the birds are preparing for the weather change ahead - and have a lot to say. The coolness of the morning is a silence unto itself, unbroken by the raucous sunshine, but this poem brings to my ear all the hustle and noise that follows soon after." Sarah Rossey, N/S Editor
The faintest warble of the thrush comes
from deep in the woods,
even before light.
The tiniest warp in the cool air,
as if the sound was not apart
but deep within the cochleae.
Before joined by the raucous jay,
the trill of the junco,
the staccato drill of the chippie,
before the cock his strutting wail begins;
a reminder of how rare