Conversation with a Hermit Thrush

A hermit thrush sang 

on the 12^th of March,

off stage,

twenty-five feet into the woods.

An introductory note, 

softly drawn

and then,

dismissing gravity,

he tossed little bells 

in an upward cascade 

into the needles of the pine

where they dissolved.

Hey, Thrush, I heard that.

That’s your spring song. 

You sang too early.

Your part starts in April.

What are your fellow-choristers

to think?

You’ll notice 

that the pine warbler came in 

exactly on the proper beat –

the first of March.

From high in the pine grove,

his disciplined trill 

introduced the whole piece.

And following a few measures later

on the second of March - 

or was it the third -

the phoebe entered on cue, 

raspy, 

as though a miniature wire brush were lodged in his throat.

So, Thrush,

what do you think you’re doing?

You can’t just start singing

whenever you want.

Can’t you hear you’re out of sync?

You come in 

when your part blends with all the other singers -

when the red-eyed vireo’s lilting voice teases from the treetops,

when the rose-breasted grosbeak,

in full blossom, 

gargles with a throat of liquid sunshine. 

You enter

just a few measures before your cousin, the wood thrush, 

returns to its summer haunts. 

Your voice can hardly compete with the arpeggios and trills

that the summer thrush flings throughout the forest. 

That’s your cue to fly north.

Why then, Thrush, do you sing out of turn in early March?

Is it because you need to ripple, massage, stretch, empower

the cords that will give life to your music?

Does this send a shiver through your body 

that casts off the chill of winter,

and readies you for your moment six weeks hence? 

Does this affirm that you are a singer,

a splendid singer, a yearning singer,

and that you know your time is coming?

I can understand that.

  © Jennifer Gaden, 2017

Hermit Thrush
Photo by CheepShot
from Wikimedia Commons