Listen—the Townsend's warbler sings,
but it's invisible, the notes blended on
the gentle wind, soft in the shade
beneath this silver poplar.

The final notes rise, as in a question.
There it is again, chirps wrapped in silence.
The song is profound,
unknowable, the sounds

of a life so unlike mine
it's invisible.

                                                       When I sing, I, too, am invisible,
                                                       as though in deep greenery of a maple,

                                                       even when no one hears me,
                                                       even when my song is grief,

                                                       as though in deep black night
                                                       wrapped in faint starlight

                                                       as though in deep poverty of spirit,
                                                       my notes lost amid the world's white noise.

The final notes are a question:
why are you here?
Do you hear me? Do you care?
Who are you to not listen?

If you hear this bird,
be quiet. Listen like the dead listen,
without ears, as if your life depended
on one more breath, eyes open.