The Bird Starting

Sudden bird, sudden and bright

Out of the wide boughs,

Along the still morning,

You do not go to plough

Or sow, to worship God

Or spread your color-changing quills

For other birds. You do not bear a heart

Taut with fright and desire,

Chilled with speculation

And regret. Brother to storm,

To the bare splendor of noon,

To the high summer midnight,

You fly from windy copse

To copse, in sun or moon,

Untouched, unstirred,

From home to momentary home.