Listen closely. Small halos dropping out of the leaves, little tambourine
sounds. A catbird mimics the wood thrush. Follow it into the thicket,
follow it into the vines. Or sing to it, to make it come.
Ghost of a call, ghost of an answer. A music teacher
told me once, Phrasing is all. But also I love
what falters and stops, starts again. Trying, always trying.
Water so green, it’s audible. It wants so much, because it can.
At night, lamps are lit at the kitchen window and the dark
spools behind like a trail for moths. Here they come,
drunk with the light and beating their lovely wings.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.