Falls the voice of a bird
calling from a sycamore.
Below, the ravine’s dry bed fills,
the scattered leaves briefly stirred
by his discourse and drumming bill,
a riddle-tongued hunger
hidden from sight.
Unwinds on the rip
of his flight, the wild loops dip
and rise with rhythms of life that tie
limb to limb with crimson bows
each time his spread wings whip the sky.
How those sprung feathers fling off light