An Ars Poetica
The Hooded Warbler
I can't fix on
the song diffracted by leaves,
the nervous, the ambitious,
green leaves of the forest, only interested
in the entirety
of space.
The song in flight
washes the compass
while the song
at rest
on a branch
builds a top hat
into which
one might throw a little money
if one could.
I see the source
in my mind, but that's not enough‑‑
for color's my god,
and the color of song is always a bird
at rest or in flight.
The leaves of nesting time
work me too hard,
but how can one be disappointed
when mystery wins, the bird unseen,
and spirit fills
so much brilliant space
—all that frustration—to consider.
—Tim Houghton