Spring has arrived in Uruguay!

 

Ostensibly about the "hornero" (as the ovenbird is called in Uruguay), the last two lines of this intricate Spenserian sonnet give a clue to my thoughts on free verse.

 

The Ovenbird

In Uruguay, in spring, I’ve often heard

lighthearted trills along a dusty road:

the lively, undiminished ovenbird

sings as she builds her intricate abode.

The wily swallow, with no stringent code

of constancy, surveys the chambered nest;

and knows that, following this episode

of eggs with which the other bird is blessed,

he’ll snatch the abdicated space. Hard-pressed

though he may be for time, for love, for will,

too wise to prove an uninvited guest,

he waits it out upon a windowsill.

The ovenbird, deemed artless by the swallow,

to practiced eyes is one tough act to follow.