Barely a bit of feathers-and-fluff, he pours his heart out tonight, steady and strong.
The wood thrush is somewhere far above me (oh, so true) and his sparkling sound falls down in sheets of white stars, spilling shakers of light over stray concerns of the day.
His shooting sprays of star-light set free the sound of cheerful confidence, vigor, a buoyant life. The luminous and uplifted collective heart.
When this spotted pile of feathers lets loose, no molecule of mine can shuffle mindlessly aside pretending to be unqualified.
After dusk, his work is done. Hearts scrubbed shiny, minds crystal clear.