Catbird

The cat-bird comes at morning light

A lyric air of joy is he,

His ritual so fresh and bright

Singing his songs of parody.

A copier voice and nothing more

He holds no cache of melody,

Repeating trills heard long before

From topmost branch or highest tree.

And we who hear his practice round

Reflect a moment on our days

Covering the same dull ground

In habit's grooves and hardened ways.

And yet within this songster's voice

A subtle variance is heard,

A note perhaps of conscious choice

Or repetition of a word

That turns the movement of the stars

Or calls to earth a rain of grace.

We too shall hear celestial bars

And one day see the Singer's face.