Poor Sam Peabody, Peabody, Peabody,
says the white-throated sparrow
in folk translation, its song quavering
and thin as a letter that might be slid
beneath my bedroom door,telling me to wake up to the day's
allotted favors, enough to stymie
leaping cats and diving hawks.
Just a taste. A few berries from the bush.
A few seeds on the tongue.
A lean song, robbed of the robin's
lushness, the mockingbird's verve,
calling me to join the Peabodies,
to sit up in bed, one more time, and whistle.
By Robert Lowes