My Focus Fails in Dhyana

            Sitting on ground, breathing—

I hear the sharp raspy song of a phoebe

returned to build a nest against my house: fee bee, fee bee. . .

Who was I before illness and injury?

Before I was warped by money and work?

Fee bee isn’t accurate. A signature buzz distinguishes

phoebe from chickadee to the cadence of know what? Fzz bzz?

I glimpse erratic fanfare of gray and white wings

as this phoebe catches something mid-air. . .

Who was I before the overwhelming material

of existence? Before parents? Before language?

Gray tail twitches, bewitches. Fzz bzz? Fzz bzz?

I, too, began with pine needles, blue sky, and cirrus clouds.

Me as a baby, wanting to be let loose into the woods,

easily distracted outside alone in love with what I see and hear.

Know what? I’d rather watch this phoebe

weave into her new spring nest a silver strand of tinsel.

from Bicycle Lotus, a chapbook published by Left Fork in 2015