Solitary harbinger of the coming dawn
The Blackbird sings his plaintive song.
All other birds, it seems, have flown
He sings -as if- for Spring alone.
That quickening of all doubts and fears
His voice sounds strident to our ears.
He watches, there, amongst the leaves
Who knows what mysteries he sees?
Light, and graceful, in her form
She flits and hops upon the lawn.
And, then, his heart grows quieter still
What dreams what hopes might we fulfil?