The Ivory Bill

This is true. That knots of bitterness bloom into trees whose branches knock against my window at night. Rip the bark with your beak, let your death rattle echo through the drowning tupelo groves. Try to sing and you'll only choke. This is what I'm trying to warn you about. If you vomit sawdust, you deserve it. Oh, you deserve it for every song you refused to sing for me. I tire of waiting for you. Ignore the bough tapping the window glass while I try to fall back asleep, swallowing blood and dust and songs. All for you.