The hermit thrush is set for six
to sing his song, as if it were
the end of the world and he was stirred
by dusk to sing the same sweet song
again and again in the understory,
as if to say, it’s neither words
nor meaning that matter in the end
but the quality of sound, as if we
were deafened by the sun and needed
his song as a key to unlock our ears,
to hear and hear and understand,
to see and see, knowing that this
one day is the end for now,
which it is, it is, he claims, with a song
just loud enough to pierce the woods
until the night descends like a thousand
veils, and then just one.