Be where the birds return when birds return.
Be objectlessly yearning on the earth.
Be still in rootless snowmelt, in the shh-
there-it-is revelation of dirt
that’s like a spirit as if spoken by
a pastor who believes in little more
than wings which he feels beating in himself.
Be here, where there, beyond the 6am
windows, spring crouches thick against the glass
+ coming-exposed curbs, roadside, and what
was left in winter. What was left for us
to find, as if there’s such a thing as hiding
from ourselves. As if there’s anything
to do but yield. The birds are trilling wild
and be where you can meet the pastor who
believes in his own voice but wonders how
it possibly can work again, this time,
the meeting of a sound and thing, the wing
of himself one small fluttering among
the bigger aviary that is earth.
Be present in the wordless fluttering.
Be wherever there’s singing and a world.