Epic
Of
these particular finches
A solitary male is singing
In the last bit of undrained swamp
Of his need to copulate,
To
reproduce his brilliance
Of colouring and unrivalled song,
Phrase upon phrase upon phrase
To the exhaustion of his stock:
A
canto as never before
On the grey-green stump of a branch
Because there are no females,
Because he is the last of a kind.