The Carolina Wren

I noticed the mockingbirds first,
             not for their call but the broad white bands,

like reverse mourning bands on gunmetal
              gray, exposed during flight

then tucked into their chests. A thing
              seen once, then everywhere—

the top of the gazebo, the little cracked statue,
              along the barbed fence. Noticed because

I know first with my eyes, then followed
              their several songs braiding the trees.

Only later, this other, same-same-again song,
              a bird I could not see but heard

when I walked from the house to the studio,
              studio to the house, its three notes

repeated like a child’s up and down
              on a trampoline looping

the ground to the sky—
              When I remember being a child like this

I think I wouldn’t mind living alone
              on a mountain, stilled into the daily

which isn’t stillness at all but a whirring
              gone deep. The composer shows how

the hands, palms down, thumb to thumb
              and forefinger to mirrored finger, make

a shape like a cone, a honeybee hive, and then
              how that cone moves across the piano—

notes in groups fluttering fast back-and-forth
             and it sounds difficult but it isn’t

really, how the hand likes to hover each patch
              of sound. Likes gesture. To hold. Listening

is like this. How it took me a week to hear
              the ever-there wren. And the bees

are like this, intent on their nectar,
              their waggle dance better than any GPS.

A threatened thing. A no-one-knows-why.
              But the wrens’ invisible looping their loop—

And I, for a moment, pinned to the ground.
              Pinned and spinning in the sound of it.