My sanctuary is guarded
by the half moon and bright flyers.
Two silver jets, a curious
parade to illustrate how things
travel in tandem, oblivious
to each other at separate
heights like two entire planes of
existence occupying the
same space. I am untroubled here,
no undercurrents, just this joy
surge of surf, the tide teasing out
our most mortifying foibles.
So I dare to emerge and be
seen, even celebrated, to
unwind, at peace. And now pulsing
a machine’s brazen claim of air,
jarring jeopardy to my calm.
In counterpoint, birdsong rises
weaving cacophony into
a healing of this broken field.
So many planes this morning, cold
and calculating the worth of
my tranquility. (None compared
to their imperative.) Ancient
memory, birds’ caretaking at
tree level and below, soothing
these harsh vibes, structuring the air
with precise sweetness. The barrage
of mechanical noise, distant
fuzzy highway, the neighbor’s car,
this thrumming motorcycle’s rev—
we pursue strident denial,
blare high-decible ignorance
and the birds give air to repair
our heedless noisy destruction,
certain soon we will get in tune.