In a song on a shoe-string, a
bird on a wire, Solovushka sings;
night is his country, darkness his
solo, lost his plumage, he is all
voice and trill of woven words
caught in crescendo:
On the edge of the earth
sifted in sand slapped by snow
shaped in rain lured by light
branch shaken leaf trembling,
stands a paper birch--
mist-flavored sweet water
untapped and rising
from tangled rock-cracking roots
your pails and buckets and cups,
fill them up for the price of
the one thing the wordless wind
cannot grant: the craving of
a silver birch,
for the gurgling of
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