The Mockingbird
All summer
the mockingbird
in his pearl-gray
coat
and his
white-windowed wings
files
from the hedge to the
top of the pine
and begins to sing,
but it’s neither
lilting nor lovely.
for he is the thief
of other sounds –
whistles and truck
brakes and dry hinges
plus all the songs
of other birds in his
neighborhood;
mimicking and
elaborating,
he sings with humor
and bravado,
so I have to wait a
long time
for the softer voice
of his own life
to come through. He begins
by giving up his
usual flutter
and settling down on
the pine’s forelock
then looking around
as though to make
sure he’s alone;
then he slaps each
wing against his breast,
where his heart is,
and, copying nothing,
begins
easing into it
as though it was not
half so easy
as rollicking,
as though his subject
now
was his true self,
which of course was
as dark and secret
as anyone else’s,
and it was too hard –
perhaps you
understand –
to speak or sing it
to anything or anyone
but the sky.
from Mary Oliver’s new collection, A Thousand Mornings
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