Jan Zwicky

Small song for the voice of the nuthatch

Such a brilliant day,
the sycamores
bronze rapids overhead,

and that tiny crumhorn
up there somewhere,
beady and antique.

The autumn light has such long legs
you’d fall in love, but it keeps
gazing off into the distance.

What distance?

Listen to the nuthatch: go home,
make bread, make soup.
Leave one chink open to the wind.