In an Afternoon Backyard, Alone with Songbirds, I Suddenly Remember How My Grandfather Used to Sit in His Backyard and Pretend to Converse with the Birds

You warble a little. More.
I’ll listen. I’ll say something
Unmusical and abstract,
Crammed with awful allusions,
Crass, with no craft, that I find
Amusing. You whistle more.
Pretend you asked a question.

Ah . . . Yes. I can answer that.
Oh, but wait. You have a friend,
Possibly a rival. There.
We don’t really know that much
About the reasons bird sing,
But I will try to answer
Both species of question. First—

The invention of reasons
I did this and account it
Admirable without you
Or any other singer
Of high critical standing
Among singers who matter
Noticing is my business.

What do I want from the world?
Material happiness,
Material contentment,
Material intervals
In which I am contented
And happy enough to find
More and more material.

Next—you. What comes from such songs?
Tiny thoughts, caught out of tune
With the world that whistles them,
Incapable of dreaming
Completed orchestrations
But sensing the melodies,
Possibly, keep good secrets.

I don’t believe you want more,
But it’s not for me to say
Why you were whistling, goldfinch,
Why any small wren whistles,
And if you whistle to save
The world for your happiness,
Your secret’s safe, I suspect.