Are there not songs in the seeds
I pour into the bird-feeder
Old songs and new songs
Waiting to be sung
The ring-necked doves are mating
On the roof above the sea
Of humming traffic while
The finches sing along
The nutriment of song
The welling up of it
From the body of the earth
To be consumed by little beaks
Who carry on the ancient sounds
I try to keep the feeder full
The lazy farmer of such songs
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