Into the fold of a supple sling.
“Watch me hit him. I can an’ I will.”
Whirr! and a silence chill and sad
Falls like a pall on the vibrant air,
From a birchen tree, whence a shower of song
Has fallen in ripples everywhere.
Only a bird! and the tiny throat
With quaver and trill and whistle of flute,
Bruised and bleeding and silent lies
There at his feet. Its chords are mute.