The Bell Bird (Shepard)
The Bell Bird, by Neil Shepard (1951-)
(Matari Bay, New Zealand)
I smell lemon everywhere,
lemon-air and lemon-earth and lemon-tees
and long-leafed eucalyptus. When I arrive
at the canyon’s rim and peer down a thousand
feet to the dusk-silent canopy of trees,
suddenly the Bell Bird sings.
Its song is almost human, a glissando
across the empty space. It wavers
on the edge of sunset, circling
along the rim or far down
in the gloom or far above
in the temperate air — it’s impossible
to tell where the song comes from.
In the moment that lasts
until I am done hearing it,
the song goes on, solitary,
varied, with an uncertain refrain.
Time begins again when the song ends.
I record it faithfully, whistle
the first few phrases that will compose
themselves into a human tone.
They will rise and fall through the staves,
through the plaintive air, the opening
notes whistled by a voice not yet
a voice, a bell rung in the throat
of something that would be wild.