Song Of The Lark

By John I. Blair

A woodland bird, a thrush or vireo,
Sings hushed by choice
As if in need of subtle sounds
To filter out between the leafy pages
Without revealing where they’re perched
Lest fox or bobcat spy.

Mockingbirds and robins
And others of their kind, less shy,
Flaunt bursts of melody
From elevated stages,
Treetops, poles, antennas,
Visible, yet clearly out of reach.

But larks live on the prairie
With neither thicket depths
Nor lofty vantage points. Instead
They fly on wings of song,
Flinging their sharp-sweet notes
Beneath the sky

As if the uncaged wind had taken voice.

©2012 John I. Blair