Summer's Herald
This late morning's high noon scaling, steeply-ascending, ragged herald
Hauls himself upwards into the roaring expanse of the dizzying sky
To chance upon this, might though his very soul should be imperiled,
When lording over which is constrained within a dispassionate, encompassing eye.
From the feathered throat abruptly pours such Mellifluous harmony
As, lifting higher and higher, he negotiates a ledge inside a wisp of
broken cloud;
Those rich, dulcet notes, more decidedly sweeter than any liquid honey,
Irresistibly flowing Earthwards... a continuous symphony of unparalleled sound.
His alone the rushing glory! His alone this almost unattainable niche!
For up here, rarified and raw, the air is breathless and sparse where thins.
Then the song fully enveloping the shrunken patchwork of fields beneath...
Whereon, delivering forth from bursting lungs, that final triumphant salvo
he heroically flings.
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