Whistle a magpie song Count almost to seven As she bends a wing The ash and char long after fire In that dancing way With a tilted query To ask only this; You have neither tongue Nor beak, to sing a newfound morning Nor yet a rise of quills to make Of the swell of day a flight From merriment to soaring Yet with a caw of half-broke voice You pretend to sing I will turn, and bow and pause and carefully watch and wonder In the narrows of bird-caution Is this a mockery in your voice Or the joy of worship?
