Birdsong is really percussion,
At least when enough birds,
Enough species get started,
At least when a whole chorus
Gets going, throats drumming
In unintentional syncopation,
Rhythms weaving through rhythms.
Rich percussion’s not simple
To appreciate wholly, to love.
You have to be slothful, still,
Ambitious enough to listen,
Lazy enough to sprawl in the sound.
It’s a gift no one intended, threading
Through gaps left by others like you.