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