the song comes loose.
Without looking up I hear a mockingbird
like a ventriloquist in feathers.
Its refrain repeats
followed by so many variations
I think there must be at least two,
one deep in the bushes
sending out its message,
one high on a telephone wire
calling back an exact reply.
The air, saturated with sound,
splashes with pleasure,
a pulsing of notes so pure
I could be standing at the center
of a bird’s heart.
So much song,
so little bird.