Sound Hunt

 

Birds call in the dark,

naming my shuffle steps back to bed,

 

when I imaged them as gulls

in the park, and I don’t know why.

 

Bird lovers hunt sound, but landscape eludes

my pillow nest activating a melting mind,

 

hearing what could not be described

as a crashing dumpster

 

or a glorious wind-battered sign

around saturated street corners.

 

Not a thunk on butcher’s moist tiling,

or car crashes trapping causation,

 

more than leaves settled upon woven mats,

or the dry snag of callused feet:

 

my doubts wrapped between

waxy, fogged layers. But echoes play out

 

and on in my mind and I hunt—

sensing unhearing along parkways

 

and greenways that mask collapsed

gull breath plummeting upward

 

toward predawn. Rattling first sparrow’s try

at prying open her beak

 

in memory of an unknown leap

from a high-rise roof. 

 

-Jan Wiezorek