Bird Symphony After a Storm


Fog holds over the city. Eve
Is rife with sounds of birds.
Red breasts and magpies gently weave
Symphonies, not of words.

The river swells, the trees are wet,
Few men are walking now.
I think that I have never met
A bird upon a bough,

This music after storm, this joy,
This avian array,
Or solitude so still and coy,
Or twitters after day.

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