of dawn—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
to no purpose at all.
Here, nothing in the world
has a name—still
everything
has a voice;
nothing has been
given a choice—but
everything
is called.
