Out of the dry days <br />through the dusty leaves <br />far across the valley <br />those few notes never <br />heard here before <br /> <br />one fluted phrase <br />floating over its <br />wandering secret <br />all at once wells up <br />somewhere else <br /> <br />and is gone before it <br />goes on fallen into <br />its own echo leaving <br />a hollow through the air <br />that is dry as before <br /> <br />where is it from <br />hardly anyone <br />seems to have noticed it <br />so far but who now <br />would have been listening <br /> <br />it is not native here <br />that may be the one <br />thing we are sure of <br />it came from somewhere <br />else perhaps alone <br /> <br />so keeps on calling for <br />no one who is here <br />hoping to be heard <br />by another of its own <br />unlikely origin <br /> <br />trying once more the same few <br />notes that began the song <br />of an oriole last heard <br />years ago in another <br />existence there <br /> <br />it goes again tell <br />no one it is here <br />foreign as we are <br />who are filling the days <br />with a sound of our own<br /><br />William Stanley Merwin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/unknown-bird/
