Thrush
Deep in the forest behind my cabin, a wood
thrush plays its flute—clear, ethereal, almost
eerie notes. The dog, dozing on the grass,
pricks up one ear. I move my chair
with the sun, but he stays in a hemlock’s
shadow. The bird could be a hermit
thrush, its song now a kind of scolding.
Alert, the dog sits, his ears’ tents lifted. I fear
I’ve been selfish, bringing us here with my
books and pencils. Years ago I stood on this
cabin’s porch, dreaming I heard a bird
singing in the cage my bones make.
Whatever it was, I let it go. There is a path
through these woods—the dog and I might
yet find that thrush, its round notes followed
by a pip-pip-pip. But the great poets have
already given us the thrush, and the trees
are stuffing daylight into their big, black coats.
Thrush by Meg Kearney | Garden Lavender Poetry Reed Diffuser Set
Meg Kearney’s All Morning the Crows won the 2020 Washington Prize and spent six months on SPD’s poetry bestseller list. Her ninth book, a heroic crown of sonnets, is titled Cardiac Thrill (2025). She lives in New Hampshire. Visit https://megkearney.com.
