All morning, single drops of rain broke with single tones.
And through the morning came a blackbird, swooping out of her
alarm, a harsh
glissando, egg-stained, and gentle peals
that echoed back.
How many waves are there like these?
Does air become a sea of vertigo
for ossicles attuned to disaster?
What is scale? What is scale?
the waves knocked.
and you would welcome injured dogs, and kids
who come with bloodied knees: but war and terror
thunder lower than the melodies
familiar to your bones.
Then these pitches must be learned—
Yet morning blesses those unmoved by violent needs—
And all the morning, single drops of rain broke with single tones.
© Judith Bishop