Amateur Birder by John Grey

I know some of the birds
by their call
but not all.

On my woodland walk,
half form in my head
just from the sound they make.

I’m talking about you, chickadee.
And you, Blue Jay.

But there’s others 
whose trill  
can’t come up with 
anything corporeal.

Song begins in the canopy,
bewitches my ear.
Alas, my tongue has no say in it.

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