Early in the morning before it is bright,
A robin starts chirping at first hint of light.
And inside the house, I awake out of sleep,
Since I gladly want my hobby to keep.
The horizon still isn’t lighted with gold.
The cool day is young, only five hours old.
I don my binoculars, sweater, and cap.
I know where I’m going; I don’t need a map.
I head out and look and I listen for birds.
I walk without sound; I utter no words.
My first feathered friend for today is Kinglet.
The morning is dewy; his feathers are wet!
The sun now begins its ascent in the sky.
The number of warblers in these woods is high!
The tame Yellow-rump and the sharp Golden-wing,
The oriole and Wood Thrush do sweet praises sing.
The Canada, Mourning, and bossy redstart—
They’re getting their insects at God’s supermart.
But those little birds are not all that I see—
A bobcat, a deer, and a squirrel in the tree.
The tiniest leaves on a tree’s outer twig,
The bluebells and violets are not very big.
Those green filigrees are so sparkly with dew;
They always remind me of life born anew.
I scan through the brush, and—what bird is that?
There’s spots on his chest and there’s orange on his hat!
Oh, yes, Ovenbird! Now he’s down on the ground.
He spins, then he pecks, then he whirls around!
I think now that breakfast is waiting for me,
But I still want to look up in that giant tree.
Oh, Tennessees, Nashvilles—they’re filling this space.
They’re actively fluttering all over the place.
I head back, excited that I had such fun.
And tomorrow morning when up comes the sun,
I’ll be in the woods looking for other birds,
These beauties God made by speaking some words.