Canarini Poem by robert dickerson

Oftentime strolling above the square
of some fragola Mediterranean hill town
the unsuspecting traveller follows his ear
to yonder high porch, where the agent of that sound
silvers with plaintive song the fragrant air.

-Just at the hottest hour of the day
when the sun glares down with baleful pride
on tile and brick and arch and quai,
harbor and vine-clad mountainside:
that is the canary: Kikirikirikiriki!

Pleased, as the sager townsman sleeps
and the bottomless Swab reflects in his beer
and the lines are hung with lifeless sheets,
to launch his song to full career
while engines die and Nature cries surcease.

Singing I suppose...