Savoring the Thrush's Song
In this wood
after the rain
I listen to the singing.
The feathered tones
unfurl,
uncage.
Sound's awash
in this space,
and as I listen
the past's alive
as present.
Bird-wise beauty
outwits age
as hearing, sight,
smell, and touch
coalesce
synaesthetically
and once again,
I can finger the fragrant song
of the thrush.