Red constellations
of berries on the toyons
stand out against
the evergreen monotony
of December.
They don’t appear
to have been harvested
yet by the flocks of
invisible birds sweetly
singing in the shrubbery.
What we once called
tweets. Before the word
was turned into a term
for short texts
posted on the web.
I would be very happy
if it were to be reclaimed
by robins, finches, juncos.
Vireos, warblers, and wrens.
Even when I can’t see them,
I know that they are there.
Like the ninety percent
of the universe
made of dark matter,
only detectable by its
effect on the visible.
Like God. If you know
what to listen for, a song.
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