Small sounds in shrubbery do soar upon light wings,
as brought in beaked becoming, sudden bright,
they light upon each lingered leaf to rise,
and ripple through the branched, enveloped realms,
which shrouds the days and nights of creatured things.
Each fluff of flimsy feather in exuberant soft shudder,
does herald joys which trill from tiny mouths,
as if the angels whispered by their sides,
that choirs were called to summon love and lilted life,
in tunes which only they could surely utter.
Such tiny heralds of the world made manifest,
in notes of trickling substance, wrought delight,
in being which had little other point or summoned purpose,
and yet which sailed on songs that are not written,
to robe this universe each dawn in royal dress.