The thrush that sings at night’s returned.
A boy of nine warbles back.
He swears he knows the speech of birds
and nears the bush where I discerned
nothing in the dark, shows his knack
to draw from naught what must be words.
Ventriloquist this warlock,
born on Halloween, to converse
with spirits has always been his yen.
I have no right to tease or mock.
Surely as I spin this verse
he answers calls within.