Fay Slimm.

BRIDGED.

 

 

Bridged.

 

A small bird on rock-peaks above quick rolling
bubble-veined stream began speaking to me.
Not by known language he piped lovely notes
warbling amid leafy hides voicing with clarity.

With no way to transcribe I leaned nearer into
his mind and caught the right pitch of his tone.
No poetry could describe the cadence through
which interpretation his bird-trill made known.

 

With melodic outpouring of humble respect for
refreshment he sang even when slaking thirst.
A bird bridged understanding by sweet choral 
abundance and fearless give of avian outburst.

 

I learned the awe needed

as bird-talk that morning            

by a dipper on coexistence

my listening ear adorned.