Syrinx

A summer glebe

at zero noon.

Syrinx—the sound

of pipes across

a weedy pond

unrustles trees.

I wonder if

the sound I think

I heard was real

or not, as in

that wet glade

where Pan discerned

a wilder note

and waded into

water thick

with reeds. That day

he lay as if

unmade against

a moss bank, trying

to recall a note

more overheard

than heard, a sleight

of wind, a sudden

rightness passing

through the world.