Noisy birds–hollering,
iterating, so loud and close
they’re in your head: wake up.
If no one hears,
does it even matter how you
squeeze the interval
or sweep the yard?
But what do I know,
it’s the bird’s world.
In my dark wood,
birds too far up to hear
make nets to catch
the stars and weather,
but down here there’s
not enough air left for
the middling get-through
when the future’s done,
just the sound of not listening,
the buzz of mere medium,
so no matter what you say
it’s just the meme
passing through you,
phatic static
and a lot of hailing.
Not that anything is
wrong with that of course,
now the freeway’s louder
than the birds.

Image: British Library 13th century, Sloane MS 3544, f. 24r http://britishlibrary.typepad.co.uk/digitisedmanuscripts/illuminated-manuscripts/page/2/