before our words
have begun their
long commutes,
when the warm washed
light of the sun
overcomes last night's
unsoothed moon—
cicadas begin
their empty drone,
wind-stippled
grasses moan,
wild birds sing
in thrall to no purpose.
Listen: nothing in this world
has a name—still,
everything
has a voice;
nothing here
has been given
a choice—but everything
is called.