The thicket is as quiet as the lace on a maid’s apron,
Bauble berries drape with the same frosted lace,
And from the darkness,
A chorister sings.
Crystal clear in the dun morning air,
Louder than a church bell on Sunday,
His bellows bright red and pumping,
As to his blood.
Soon, the sun will rise and with it,
The falsetto trill of the blue and yellow,
He too can feel the change.
They know, they know.