Two unchanging notes; to us, words—always those high
elongated notes. Red-eyed koels with feathered earmuffs,
downward-ending notes that pour through a falling of night
coming over the distances, words that don’t change.
The two notes remain, a split phrase, two words
meaning, not exactly a self—not quite, the first day of spring.
The moment of utterance, candour becomes
the piercing, whistled syllables. Penetrating the dark green
of twilight, the storm birds call, two notes, two words,
and cackle in the broken-egged dawn, in the echoing light.
from Net NeedleFind more by Robert Adamson at the library
Copyright © 2015 Robert Adamson
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.