His eye was keen, in bygone time
To birds and patterns in the woods—
To grass that roved like “corduroy”
To insects up the chain of goods.

“Annihilation”, he would warn,
To strike these latter out the way;
“A king of Cairo’d feel the loss
If picnic crawlers left, today.”

To each of these, and much besides,
He listened with a chuffing heart.
He wrote those lives distinctively
Though time denied him every part.

A dozen friends surrounded him
In hidden places in the trees
The sounds of birds, like names of books,
Invoking Shakespeare as they please.

He stole their favorite trick from them
And hid himself, covered by sticks
In something like a pinewood frame
Where watching them, he found his fix.

An old invention of the birds
Became the scientist’s delight
And made a place of sympathy
For people, in another light.