I have an app
that listens for birds,
and when one sings,
it tells me
who.
A towhee, it might say,
or a thrush,
or the sharp laugh
of a jay.
But more often,
when I open it—
when I ask the trees
to explain themselves—
they go quiet.
As if they know
I’ve come not to hear,
but to name.
And what does it matter,
the who,
if I miss the what?
So I close it,
set it in my lap,
and listen.
A whistle, a trill,
a rustle, a rapture.
Voices
without identification,
like a party line
from some other world,
where the names don’t matter—
only the joy
of being overheard.
