Over clay and blue stone
the creek’s song keeps going
thin in its dry throat.

The morning-wet grass
is seeded with sound,
a muted unwinding of gears.

Green backed with green
deepens in shadow.
Wind rustle. Bird chatter.

Now sound transmutes
to motion, as if song,
internalized, fuels the wings.

A golden finch lasers
a trajectory, hickory to feeder.
The air hums like a taut wire.

Beyond, July’s uncut fields
dance to a reel that skirts
the registers of the human ear.

Charlottesville, Virginia.