Sound Constructions in Surviving Forest

Thrushes, warblers, robins, whatever—
How the small birds’ songs fit together
While they’re singing around each other,

Against traffic noises drifting up
From even this, most rural highway,
Where few trucks come to recon small towns,

And no one around’s rich or famous,
None of the hermits highly esteemed.
It’s not weaving. It’s not tapestry.

It’s not concertare. Every bird
Exemplifies an evolved species
Whose ancestors led to it, singing

Successfully to other members
Of its mating and competing kind.
They fit around each other, the trills,

Riffs, burbles, whistles, sudden outbursts,
The thrush practicing pure three-tone scales,
The thrush that seems to fake out echoes,

The chickadees and the vireos,
All of them—when they’re numerous, when
They’re scarce, endangered, disappearing—

Until the day they’re actually gone.
Sound will go on. It went on before
Birdsong. Nothing’s been singing that long