I don’t know whereabouts the song thrush sings
we see it not, but hear its chant.
I can see whereabouts the greenfinch calls
on a high tree like a speck of feather.
No idea whereabouts the mistle thrush moans
in a distant place, hidden in a wood.
Some whereabouts the nightingale sang just once
a distant song of enchantment and romance.

But here, in front of my window
two great tits dance and flirt
and here in my garden
two blue tits make a nest in a swift’s brick.
Here the jackdaws raid, the pigeons make a mess of our garden table,
blackbirds fly low, wrens hide, and the faithful robin is everywhere.