I hear, from the bench where I sit in the woods, six or seven distinct voices:

High-pitched trills, Consonant thrum, Wandering warbles, Insistent monosyllabic bursts.

The knock of a woodpecker against the tree opposite me.

Each bird speaks its own language, sounds exactly like what it is, no shame in a higher pitch or shorter song.

Each bird, exactly that bird’s voice; Each bird, exactly bird-sized. Glorying in the self it was made to be, Glorying its maker.

Written at Corhaven, 10/27/2021 on the most lovely of days of solitude.