I saw, not heard,

On a branch jutting over the trail,

With a scarlet throat, thrown back, and blue-green tail,

What seemed a different bird.

Without a noise,

Scarcely breathing, for minutes I stood

Deep in that silent, timeless world of wood

Hoping to hear his voice,

Thinking so strange

A songbird must by nature sing

An ecstatic carol, unlike anything

I'd heard for pitch and range,

But, still, no sound.

When I approached, he didn't flinch,

He stared (a warbler? an exotic finch?)

And right up close I found

It wasn't a bird

At all, only a man-made thing

Someone had whittled and painted, beak and wing,

And, though it seems absurd,

Decided to stick

Deep in the woods, for someone like me

To happen upon some day, and see, then see,

And laugh at his little trick,

And feel a bit lost,

As if the whole walk were a dream

Where things are always never what they seem

In winter woods without frost.

Then, on my word,

(It's unbelievable, I know

And all this happened, or didn't, years ago),

Turning to leave, I heard,

Not loud or long,

But audible through the forest air

Comingfrom outside? inside?from somewhere,

Playing, a different song.

