American Pipit -- Anthus rubescens, on migratory stopover at Loyola Beach in Chicago, IL. poem by Judith Wright:
'Whatever the bird is, is perfect in the bird.
Weapon kestrel hard as a blade’s curve,
thrush round as a mother or a full drop of water
fruit-green parrot wise in his shrieking swerve—
all are what bird is and do not reach beyond bird.
Whatever the bird does is right for the bird to do—
cruel kestrel diving in his hunger the sky,
thrush in the trembling dew beginning to sing,
parrot clinging and quarrelling and veiling his queer eye—
all these are as birds are and good for birds to do.
But I am torn and beleaguered by my own people,
The blood that feeds my heart where they gather and fight for dominion—
all different, all with a wish and a will to save me,
to turn me into the ways of other people.
If I could leave their battleground for the forest of a bird
I could melt the past, the present and the future in one
and find the words that lie behind all these languages.
Then I could fuse my passions into one clear stone
and be simple to myself as the bird is to the bird.' ~ "Birds" by Judith Wright, 1953.
“In the beauty of poems are the tuft and final applause of science.” ~ Walt Whitman, preface, "Leaves of Grass", 1855.