Full Title: The Massachusetts Poetry Festival: Doves, Blancos, Hoffmans and Duhamels flock together
When the winter finally consented to go back where it came from and I felt comfortable running again on the streets of my neighborhood, I was startled by the birds, by the songs of birds – they began exactly where they ended last fall.
We don’t have the power to end birdsong, but I sense that if we could, we would. First we’d narrow their opportunities, remove the highest branches, condense their songs into little ditties, copyright the most popular ones and, eventually, you wouldn’t be able to listen to any of their work unless you paid 99 cents for each 15-second twitter.
Fortunately, there are still trees and a few open spaces left where birds can gather without fear of shotguns or smog, and they are still singing, at least on my street.
Poets too, are still out there, declaiming, though you probably won’t hear them if you go for a run this morning.