Wood Thrush

A poem. "A song that holds its own echo In the hollow of itself."

---

Thanks for reading The Enthusiast! If you’re enjoying what you’re reading but haven’t become a subscriber, why not take the plunge? You’ll get access to all of our content, plus exclusive perks like access to our chat and curated playlists.

---

A song that holds its own echo
In the hollow of itself.

A birch-skin beckoning,
A bamboo chime in a humid wind.

We heard it like the tinkle of glass
Spilling down stone

While we navigated a ridge
Above the cloudline

Somewhere near Amherst,
Exhilarated and a little lost

In a bewilderment of seething green.
Always just ahead

And out of sight and commanding
A sacrifice of quiet

From us, the intruders,
A speckled spirit

Whose wrath was absence,
Whose charm and curse

Was this reminder of voices
And faces as vanished now

As the half-seen flutter
Of gray wings just around the bend.

---

You might also like:

---

---

Love The Enthusiast, but can’t commit to a full subscription? Click this button to leave us a one-time tip!

---

Did you know that if you share this article, you can earn free content through our leaderboard program? Spread the word and earn good things: it’s a win-win.

---