It was birdsong and only birdsong that I tuned in to

until my body registered their calls so that

a chorus of birds filled me, triggering pleasure, so that

I thanked the red-winged blackbird passing overhead

thanked the lady cardinal flying low to the ground and all

the winged creatures with beaks wide open it was

birdsong everywhere, in the leaning willow

and wherever they perched on other good trees

and in the open where I am pointing now to that

field of wheat and plowed rows of earth, the wildflower meadow

where they sang and darted and flitted and over here as well

where they darted and sang, especially among the tall grasses

rimming the cow pond where their sounds are synchronized

with frequencies the land needs to

wake and to thrive

So unlike the din of the county road just beyond the tree line

over there, see, in the spaces between those trees that

well-traveled road with its constant rush of cars and trucks

and the revved-up motorcycles dashing by,

the clanging noise of the scrap metal place,

and Heacock’s Saw Mill, Jack’s Dog Farm,

the gravel lot with Oink Johnson’s BBQ Ribs & Pulled Pork griller

where plumes of smoke rise among the ongoing commotion

all of which fade each time I am taken up with the birds,

their songs, here on this side where my feet are

anchored to earth, as I listen with all of

my body, especially my heart in my body, where I sense

the hard-shell casing I have long built

around it ever so slightly

beginning to crack