“A Dark Matter” by Barbara Langhorst

So shy, immaterial, you lit out at night for a climate
that knows no change, peeping to the call of winter
in Jamaica, first-primed paradise. Now, Swainson’s
warbler, spread your wings wide, a better treat
than an eagle in the hands of the migrating
naturalist, your
if-a-tree-falls-
in-the-forest
rock-a-bye-ba-
by song interrupted
by glass. More elusive
than two in the bush, you lay
splayed on the chiller a full twenty
empty hours. Stroked now, how
your peppered yellow
throat thrills to the fall
heard only in the mind
of the unknown,
wholly.

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