I hear the MacGillivary’s singing
on all the edges of the trees,
their lazy, slurring sequence,
and I know if I stopped and waited
I would see them in the branches,
their dusky blue. But I don’t.
I keep plodding up the hill.
The spring sun comes through
the scattering leaves. The valley
spreads out below me, soft
and green. But I don’t want it,
I don’t want any of it, not today.
I’m too weary. Too ashamed.