The moment when the rocks
turn to sand beneath your feet,
is the moment when you hear
that bird song, captured in the air
between it’s beak and your ear,
so only you can hear it

only you who can turn
sand back into glass,
to build a window in
your house where
you can only see the tress,
their branches unleashed and
threatening

but you have heard the birds sing,
and sound is the last sense

to go