Of the Gray-Brown Bird

The thrush, the hermit
Watched him carrying
His wildflower bouquets,

Tramping through the woods
Just outside of town,
Staggering a bit

In recovery,
Wild-bearded old man
Chanting to himself.

What did the bird care?
It needed to sing.
The old man knew that,

And knew what it sang,
And chanted it back,
This time with meaning.