“Catbird sounds”

In morning hush, where dew still clings  
To clustered leaves and whisperings,  
The catbird in the dogwood’s shade  
Unfurls her song—sharp, bright, and made

Of mimicry and twining tune,  
A fluted call, a distant loon,  
A snatch of robin, warbler’s trill,  
A mew as though she’s lost, and still

She weaves the woodland’s choral thread  
On leaf and mist and dusky bed.  
Gray suit, dark cap, a slender sprite  
Who sings the dawn from fleeing night.

Her music bends the garden air,  
A shadow quick beyond compare;  
A riddle spun of echoes found  
Where wild things dream and longing sounds—

Each note a borrowed memory,  
A secret in the cedar tree.  
O catbird! Composer with no chart,  
The whole world’s songs tucked in your heart.

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