I listen to
a warbler
somewhere nesting
sing,
her song
of spring
hope and
obligation.
Nearby,
I spy
Miragaia,
its fountains
freshly painted,
its stone portals
restored.
Here,
near Miragaia and
a girl's school,
a Magdalen house.
An old woman
sweeping there
glares at us.
The house itself
is very quiet.
Perhaps, cautions one
of us, it is still used.
The sorrow of the place
then breaks
as the warbler is heard.
Such a joyous bird!
She is up there,
somewhere,
high above the house
in the Magdalen's
tangled tree.
The neighboring girls,
listening,
look up from their books,
exchange looks
of defiance,
amid peals of laughter.
