BIRD SONG

The voices of birds
Which, unobserved,
From a mass of stippled greenery sing,
Drip from the tip
Of each slender twig
Like pearls from a broken string.
Where, in a pile
They linger awhile
Until dusk into night has grown,
Melting away
And the end of day
As the droplets of dew are sown.

But when it is dark
And vigilant owls
To the bowels
Of tall trees secretly cling,
Caught in the taut
Suppression of time,
Hollow their long notes ring.
Empty and chill
When the air is still
Hovering, sad and alone
Cries that are wrung
From the owls are hung
On the cold Selenian throne.