Here’s another of my bird poems:
is foreign to the wren.
She is all present in her garbling song,
She is all knowing as she carries thin sticks to her nest box
She is all loving in the dawn
She is powerful in clover to the tiny bug
but the crow could swallow her,
and she would fit into my hand.
She is eager, not tense.
She is present, not passed,
She is perfect, not single,
and no helping verbs accompany her.
Her song is a breathtaking flood,
lilting , unlikely OM
to the wrenmother