By the Lack of Comparisons

Robins, then a Swainson’s thrush
With its rising, three-part trill
That trails off like an echo,

Greet the cloudy, high summer
Morning in the conifers.
Once a few warblers join in,

The whole chorus obliges
You to re-remind yourself
This is fortunate to hear,

Even in passing, even
Not being able to stay,
Sojourner for a summer,

You, temporary renter
Of an insecure moment,
Lucky you’re able to hear.

When the chorus hits a lull,
There’s just the slight hum of house,
And, admit it, you’re relieved.