First day of the month—
 
morning and evening birdsong
 
trickles from the trees.

 
 
 

Through my open door
 
I hear rare winter birdsong,
 
so, I sing along.

 
 
 

Last Wednesday of March—
 
we throw open the windows,
 
birdsong rushes in.

 
 

March morning birdsong—
 
I cross another thing off
 
my honey-do list.

 
 
 

Somewhere flowers bloom,
 
somewhere birdsong stuns the air—
 
freezing autumn rain.

 
 
 

Last days of summer—
 
the morning flood of birdsong
 
slows to a trickle.

 
 
 

Birdsong settles down
 
in an empty wheelbarrow,
 
surprising the rust.

 

 
 
 

By a mountain stream
 
I take a break for birdsong,
 
and then move along.

 
 
 

tea water boiling
 
birdsong outside my window—
 
autumn contentment

 
 
 

Long before daybreak
 
the first bright notes of birdsong
 
stir the maple leaves.