I thought it was a hermit thrush

I thought it was a hermit thrush,
Or a trio, actually,
An "Archduke," one song, three
Pairs of wings sweeping back
And forth, among the quince stalks,
Mulberry and Virgina Creeper weeds
(Lacking acanthus this late today).
Dainty lips all, snatching tiny tasty lacewings
From the jaws of all my fresh raw stumps.

One sings, two listen:
Three triplets and one messe di voce bright and gay
(No other small-town evening sound in sight).
Stop in the highest limb and shout: Know it all, know it all, know it all: Glee!
Surely the same, I grind the thick bow deep into the groaning
Bridge and watch the rosen spray,
Not so different from the splashing sap, the bugblood,
Battered by these wordless deacons as you pray.

Linda Brown Holt