The Chat

I wish
    I were
        the yellow chat
            down in the thickets

who sings all night,
    throwing
        into the air
            praises
            
and panhandles,
    plaints,
        in curly phrases,
            half-rhymes,

free verse too,
    with head-dipping
        and wing-wringing,
            with soft breast

rising into the air—
    meek and sleek,
        broadcasting,
            with no time out

for pillow-rest,
    everything—
        pathos,
            thanks—

oh, Lord,
    what a lesson
        you send me
            as I stand

listening
    to your rattling, swamp-loving chat
        singing
            of his simple, leafy life—

how I would like to sing to you
    all night
        in the dark
            just like that.