Dave Bonta's short poem imagines morning arriving in the form of a bird, a wren that is "public," as if it sings openly for anyone who cares to listen. Against this plain, unguarded creature the poem sets "the folly of the high corn," a phrase that makes the tall summer crop seem proud or foolish, grown full of itself.
The wren then speaks, or seems to: "we are mad." The line is startling, and it's hard to say whether it is an accusation or a gentle observation. The final line, "no man knowing the summer," suggests that humans never really grasp the season they live inside. We rush, plan and build, while the bird simply sings.
The mood is quiet, a little eerie, and wryly humbling. The title, "Prophetic," fits the wren's role as a small, unlikely seer. Judging by the imagery, the speaker doesn't seem offended by being called mad. He listens, and the poem leaves us with a sense of how much the natural world knows that we don't.