Prairie Warbler, Marriottsville
Dazed by May’s moist breath,
I wander the grove of young trees,
into the secret land of desire
where the prairie warbler comes each year
to mate and nest.
Two of them fly so close by my face
intent on each other.
Another one sings her song,
a high, ascending whistle
climbing into the silence of the hot afternoon.
Insects buzz around me,
the sun drones about me,
I see her yellow body at the top of
one of those thousand slim young trees.
Ah! there you are!
I come back the next year,
and the scene is the same.
I am different,
not so delirious in love.
Seared by the stove,
cut by the broken glass,
but you, yellow lover,
too busy to notice me,
you are back,
calling your call
which I will travel
miles out of my way
to hear, to hear!
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