Isolation sonnet, 8

Cynical the human view of this land manifestly
our land now aside from there being so much yellow 

now telling the story of life spreading its greenly
but imperfectly formed self around and above my ear

if sky can be blue and carry itself as well
as one might expect a medium to, the clusters of asters
in the culverts are constellations needing
no name, just listening to birdsong with an unpracticed ear

an aspiring but wholly amateur translator, I know
so little about the languages I’m listening so hard to,
still I grow to believe there is method in chaotic improvisation of
mockingbird, the changeable pattern of calls from

crows on station in treetops, jay’s rusty-pulley shriek cutting
through morning, or the forlorn cheep of hungry finch on branch.