My true love is a nightingale,
shy singer in a shady lee,
or gorgeous bird of paradise:
that rainbow-colored symphony.

Sometimes she is a turtle dove,
a gentle bird, naive, unwise.
At night, bodacious bird of prey
that swoops, like death, from savage skies.

At times she is a wee wan wren:
a frail and fragile feathered thing.
Some days she soars like eagle bold
on most majestic, mighty wing.

I love her when she simply sings:
like skylark on a dreary day!
But mostly when she swoops like swift
in summer's breathless, brief ballet.