my ears soak inside-out in a seltzer
filled glass on my bedroom nightstand
each evening so that the ringing will
hopefully dissolve and settle to the bottom

they dream of wingtips that the
maple can hear through the leaves
as they stir the breeze upon landing,
the patter of avian claws gripping
the bark in short scoots,

the stretch of a twig bending downward
with the slightest brush of a feather, the
splitting noises of a newborn’s egg,
and even the breath taken before
the whoosh of a dive—

they awaken this morning with
words and imagination bringing
forth a new voice,

one which reads aloud to them
about the simple sounds
that birds can make...



"a whoosh unheard"
© 2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved