The cascading call
of the Canyon Wren
kept urging my words
to form into lines
to echo the sound;
but the clear notes
bursting
from this small brown bird,
at first suspended,
then falling through
the shapeless air,
were so pure,
so full of grace;
it was impossible
to transcribe his song,
sung from the echoing space
of clear canyon air,
onto these pages;
flat, white,
and hungry for words,
impossible to honor
this holy dimension.
© 2017 Richard Havenga
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