Threnody

A bird in the tree, singing,

is an infinite joy.

A bird in the hand is worth

nothing.


Found on the road,

no sign of injury.

His head was hot against my fingers,

his eyes sparkled,

but the warm little body was still

and silent.




I buried him under the pin oak tree

below the place where he sang

with such vitality.




Song thrush, Turdus philomelos