This by Maitreyabandhu

There’s no law against my listening

to this thrush behind the barn,

the song so loud it echoes like a bell,

then it’s further off beyond the lawn.

Whatever else there is, there’s this as well.

There’s no law against this singing –

nesting I suppose – up in the silver birch,

even though we build a common hell,

have done, and will make it worse.

Whatever else there is, there’s this as well.