hermit thrush music

a pool among rock
if there were the sound of water only
not the cicada
and dry grass singing
but sound of water over a rock
where the hermit thrush sings in the pine trees
drip drop drip drop drop drop drop.....
-t. s. eliot (from the wasteland) 


where the little stream flows behind our house in the maine woods, i hear a hermit thrush sing his end-of-day song in the tall pines.

may's evening shadows linger around the pines' silhouettes while the bird's ethereal and somewhat mournful notes hang flute-like in the air, the last lonesome sound in the otherwise quiet forest.

in the house i move from room to room and switch on lights, banning shadows as the gloom creeps in.

the thrush's descending musical phrases fade and disappear like an echo in the night.