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
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