Early morning I open the door to the garden and he greets me

With an instant measure of thrush-song from the eucalyptus tree,

Sidelining all other sounds so that he only has my attention

As he tells me it is glorious to be alive in Springtime. Mention

Of Trump, Putin, or Xi, Iran, Ukraine, Gaza, or Scottish elections

Would be like interrupting a Bach partita only less effective

Since the thrush will never stop mid-cadence. If I whistle

Back, he does not despise my human inadequacy but listens

Politely before giving me a subtle variation on his first tune.

Yet Deep Seek tells me that increased sunlight goes kaboom

In his hormones towards territory, mating, breeding, and chicks

so that his song means, “This is my garden, I have the pick

of the females, I have a big one.” These biological facts do not

encompass the whole truth of the bird, who is no more a robot

controlled by chemicals than I am, though I am no less moved

by them than he. His song, composed of distinct sections hooted

or fluted, linked by form and rhythm, tell of an orderly universe

where the sun awakes you and darkness lets you sleep, where birth

and death, pleasures and pains, silence and song are balanced

and trees bear leaves to screen your nest from predators. No fancy

stuff but repetition and variation speak of universal forces

seen in one day’s winds and how two wings may use them.

Testosterone is fuel for this music but the fire that says Amen

To life is the whole bird. This is his song. This is my poem.