the mockingbird, mary oliver

• all summer
• the mockingbird
• in his pearl-gray coat
• and his white-windowed wings
• flies
• from the hedge to the top of the pine
• and begins to sing, but it's neither
• lilting nor lovely,
• for he is the thief of other sounds —
• whistles and truck brakes and dry hinges
• plus all the songs
• of other birds in his neighborhood;
• mimicking and elaborating,
• he sings with humor and bravado
• so i have to wait a long time
• for the softer voice of his own life
• to come through. he begins
• by giving up all his usual flutter
• and settling down on the pine's forelock
• then looking around
• as though to make sure he's alone;
• then he slaps each wing against his breast,
• where his heart is,
• and, copying nothing, begins
• easing into it
• as though it was not half so easy
• as rollocking,
• as though his subject now
• was his true self,
• which of course was as dark and secret
• as anyone else's,
• and it was too hard —
• perhaps you understand —
• to speak or to sing it
• to anything or anyone
• but the sky.