Wood Thrush In childhood, I had heard your song, In twilight-- after rain, The lovely floating clarity-- The notes without a stain. It echoed from surrounding hills, As the octave you would change, I guessed at what your plumage was, And the size-- to make such range. I'd heard you called a "nightingale"-- By one I thought would know; Your voice did fit the poet's words-- Their odes befit your "show". Your elusive form eluded sight, Seemed ever far away; I never once came close to you-- You never chose to stray. But then one day, without a thought-- I heard your call close-by! And saw you walk as still you sang-- Could scarce believe my eye! Your spotted breast-- your feathers brown Your modest size and all-- How could a bird so nondescript-- Put forth such glorious call? Twice your size-- I thought you'd be-- For a note to sound so far-- I'd need a book to learn your name, Confirm just who you are. Now in age, I miss your song, For you're no longer here. Just faded memories of those notes, That thrilled a childhood ear. A lesson learned, is all I have, That beauty's not so deep-- It's what the user really does-- That others wish to keep! Bill Woodall