Ode To Bird Watching - Poem by Pablo Neruda

Now 
Let's look for birds! 
The tall iron branches 
in the forest, 
The dense 
fertility on the ground. 
The world 

is wet. 
A dewdrop or raindrop 
shines, 
a diminutive star 
among the leaves. 
The morning time 
mother earth 
is cool. 
The air 
is like a river 
which shakes 
the silence. 
It smells of rosemary, 
of space 
and roots. 
Overhead, 
a crazy song. 
It's a bird. 
How 
out of its throat 
smaller than a finger 
can there fall the waters 
of its song? 
Luminous ease! 
Invisible 
power 
torrent 
of music 
in the leaves. 
Sacred conversations! 
Clean and fresh washed 
is this 
day resounding 
like a green dulcimer. 
I bury 
my shoes 
in the mud, 
jump over rivulets. 
A thorn 
bites me and a gust 
of air like a crystal 
wave 
splits up inside my chest. 
Where 
are the birds? 
Maybe it was 
that 
rustling in the foliage 
or that fleeting pellet 
of brown velvet 
or that displaced 
perfume? That 
leaf that let loose cinnamon smell 
- was that a bird? That dust 
from an irritated magnolia 
or that fruit 
which fell with a thump - 
was that a flight? 
Oh, invisible little 
critters 
birds of the devil 
with their ringing 
with their useless feathers. 
I only want 
to caress them, 
to see them resplendent. 
I don't want 
to see under glass 
the embalmed lightning. 
I want to see them living. 
I want to touch their gloves 
of real hide, 
which they never forget in 
the branches 
and to converse with 
them 
sitting on my shoulders 
although they may leave 
me like certain statues 
undeservedly whitewashed. 
Impossible. 
You can't touch them. 
You can hear them 
like a heavenly 
rustle or movement. 
They converse 
with precision. 
They repeat 
their observations. 
They brag 
of how much they do. 
They comment 
on everything that exists. 
They learn 
certain sciences 
like hydrography. 
and by a sure science 
they know 
where there are harvests 
of grain