Tom Hunt

Late into the quiet night he sings,

winging up from a high moon-shadowed oak, liquid clear in the moon's serene white shining, while the wide Earth and the high stars listen.

I hear thee, bird,

thou and I awake.

My mind, too, is singing clear at last.

Silent the hills wait

while oak branches and enchanted shadows stir

around us.

Sing, mockingbird!

Sing of Love that shaped these stars, these hills, this oak.

O ancient voice!

My love is here

but only thou, bird,

thou and I

know.

one

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