Black, bold, a suggestion of dark

Places about it, there yet should come

Such rich music, as though the notes'

Ore were changed to a rare metal

At one touch of that bright bill.

You have heard it often, alone at your desk

In a green April, your mind drawn

Away from its work by sweet disturbance

Of the mild evening outside your room.

A slow singer, but loading each phrase

With history's overtones, love, joy

And grief learned by his dark tribe

In other orchards and passed on

Instinctively as they are now,