On the verge of a new April, I want to offer this poem, written almost fifty years ago to celebrate the advent of spring and the fact of my being at that time in the United States together with my family for just over two years. It was inspired by a piece in the New York Times in 1977.
Now the morning
Is April-bright with bird song:
It is a different sound,
One with wind and spated brooks
And rustling trees
Just beginning to bud.
The birds of meadows and hillside:
When do they come?
How do they know where to go?
They come quietly
Just drifting in and ————–
Here they are,
One day, fully at home:
A flight of robins arrive,
And scatter over a park slope
Or a suburban village green
Full of strut and eager satisfaction.
The migrants are back
And making this a busier world
For they must mate,
They must build nests and lay eggs,
And raise their hatchlings.
From an egg
The size of the end of your thumb
Comes flight and color and song,
The whole birdness of this world:
You know that the supersonic jets
Do not yet command the air.