Starting evening song,
the goldfinch in the ginkgo —
his beak to the sun.

His song like heartache,
he gives it away for free
to the whole forest.

It’s getting later,
chickadees revelating,
there is more to say.

They move spring along —
blooming in the still-cold air,
balanced on bare limbs.

My mother’s plum tree.
reaches in from the abyss —
blooms opening slow.

Reedy and intent,
his song is automatic —
Robin in springtime.

Testimonial,
above speech and below song,
this spring moss takes flight.

Am I in the stars,
the birds calling, tree to tree,
the sun on this moss?

Yard full of birdsong,
we’re concerned about these things,
my mother and me.

The first day of spring,
we’re lucky to walk this path—
every bird singing.