I’m still a quarter mile from the marsh
when I hear them, the red-winged blackbirds,
the males singing conk-la-ree, the last note
sharp and rising, and the females answering
chak-chak-chak in applause. My approach
alarms the males and they fly from the reeds
to the tops of the budding maples, where
they continue their songs. The sun
is glinting off the waters, the bleached
cattails glowing golden in the light.
A pair of mallards, fresh from my dreams,
floats in slow circles near the far shore.
I stand on the hill, glad as the day
to be here, watching, hearing the song.