What to Call It

To the thrush singing at the woods’ edge it must look as if I’m hitting myself

but that’s only incidental. I’m swatting mosquitoes.

To the cops at the stadium it might appear that she’s praying

when she closes her eyes to see the afterimages on her eyelids.

To friends & admirers of the legendary coach it must’ve seemed so generous,

all the things he gave those boys, all the places he took them.

To us it’s a mournful song but to the wood thrush itself?

Perhaps just the sound of dusk passing through its windpipe.