T. S. Davis
Outside our bedroom window, we both heard
a whooping noise from somewhere in the dark,
and though an eerie call, it was a bird—
I’m sure of this—its cry forlorn and stark.
I looked outside across the midnight lawn.
Though nothing moved, yet I could feel it knew
that someone now was listening to its song,
deciphering this whooping rendezvous.
Of course, the whooping stopped—I knew it would—
and all returned to silent raw despair.
Yet we who heard have never understood
that tense and lonesome cry that split the air.
For every creature seeks to share its pain,
and then backs off, afraid to make it plain.
—from Rattle #32, Winter 2009
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Read by Tim