He watches my entry
Down the tilt of pasture,
Clumps of mud sinking my rubber boots,
Chainsaw load and fuel jugs,
Holds and eye on me
In his one position.
When I set to work he sets to work,
Drops off the long spring of telephone wire.
Through the day picks at my brush piles, goes
Back onto the wire, withstands the heat, watches.
It is only when I shut the saw down I hear what
He says, the scale of whistles both sharp
And gentle to the ear, no one pitch alike, perhaps
The voice of many birds together, in this one who
Peers down at me as I leave and now starts to sing.

Bobolink: Translated into Japanese by Shuko Miyatake

Volume Two Index
The East Village Poetry Web
Bob Arnold