Birdsong
March sunlight has made the birches blaze;
leafless yet, their
papery bark is making flames;
even in
mid-afternoon they appear heavenly.
With the din of cars
laid low by the virus,
birdsong is
everywhere; how many thousand trees
on this hillside;
how many birds is that?
Spring is indeed a
time for listening; I haven’t been.
Now, in this awful
time, my hearing has returned, and
I have rediscovered
a symphony long lost beneath wheels.
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