A Bird in His Tree

If I cannot sing your praises 
what kind        of bard am I? 
The way your lithe branches 
give the                     sunlight 
its most         silent        shape 
would be enough    for songs-
-a million.            And            I 
sweat                under the shade 
soundlessly sounding for days. A 
m   o   n   a   s   t   i   canxiety 
rescales my            fishless eyes 
to a tune forgotten quickly. To sing 
of your            brown edged leaves
crisp against the smoothest blue
spread               b  u  t  t  e  r-like 
across a grey tabula rasa     of sky 
unfounded would force lungs to dig 
with fingers they do not have. Yet 
they          must. And          so 
I perch                      songless 
in                     your canopies 
waiting for the egrets below 
  t   o       sound the alarms 
  of their amorous charms
while you seem not to mind
                              my silence