Listen while you read

Colony collapse

I'm driving toward a road sign I saw only once
more of an absent-minded glimpse
in order to visit brief significances;
this is "importance" as I understand it.

Meanwhile, a robin
makes its way to Canada in eventual loops,
living life in seasons the way water doesn’t.

What I mean to say is:

There is a flock of birds overhead who care only for worms
and here I am caring about what birds care about caring about.

What I mean to say is:

There they are, circling en plein air above me, a colony of unclaimed miracles, the burrowing choir rushing into the edge of unseason. Their prayers, first buried and blue, are later unearthed in a greenhouse—slow blooming unburiment—a small shrouded bird song, alkaline reminders of you, the seasons, and the half-truths that circle overhead in eager flocks.

In this issue