Birdsong

One could do worse in the early morning

When Dawn still wears red cap on golden tresses,

Before the rolling ocean-girdled green

Turns to warm its star-wrapt Western side

Against the golden fire of the Day,

Than lie awake neath floral coverlets

And listen to the early finches’ trill

And bell-ringing of the Mourning Dove.

From mid-morning until afternoon,

One might lie out on golden-flower’d fields

And hear the Western Bluebird pipe its mate,

the red-faced House Finch whistle many notes,

The Lesser Goldfinch its more modest song;

Or raise eyes as all three raise alarm

When down descends and struts a monstrous Crow,

Unheeding them, no interest in theirs,

Yet fright to them whenever it draws near.

Meanwhile tiny bushtits mid the leaves

Give out their inconspicuous sharp squeaks;

High above, Red-Shoulder and Red-Tail,

Cackling Astur, and aforesaid Crows

Contest the sky with proud and clam’rous shrieks.

And in the hottest hours of the day,

Half between the zenith and the set,

The Dark-Eyed Junco changes its dawn tune

And rolls and rattles, builds a fence of sound,

Bright with banners, fearsome with heard pikes. 

All day one hears the little hummingbirds,

Speeding past, too swift almost to see,

Little jewel-bright fearless fairy birds,

Daring their way like bees from bloom to bloom.

Penultimate, as afternoon turns eve,

the canebrake with a myriad voices sounds,

Phoebes, finches, swifts, sparrows, tits,

Perched above, or in flight low over ground.

Lastly, as the golden hour turns to blue,

Ears resound with low-pitch’d call-and-answer,

Each answering the other cross the river,

Silhouetted on the shadiest tree,

Twin crests erect o’er eyes that know no darkness,

Terror to mice: the solemn-faced Horn’d Owl. 

Long watch they keep until the break of day,

When the last of the crowing cockerels, once many,

Lifts his voice and sings his ancient song,

Reminding of ancient times and fresh new dawn.