All the Notes

Birds can hear both relative and absolute pitch, more temporal fine structure

(similar to timbre) than humans, and all of it faster than us—

so they hear more notes than we do.

I am glad I cannot hear all the notes they sing.

It is already more than I can keep in my muddied head.

This one, then that one, each of them singing feathered bodies out the treetops.

Songs spiral down to me like maple seeds, slight helicopters of sound.

They are a web that nets my senses.

They are Indra’s net, each of them shining something never before seen.

And from this half-heard orchestra, they find each other.

And from this tumbled forest, they heave a hidden nest.

From snatches of twigs and moss and insects smaller than my iris, raise a family.

And just before summer’s true onset, they fledge and fly.

Their lives more brief than a half-held breath, and filled with a half-heard

melody.

In these treetops, the feathers of my days floating up.

The lotus in the pond knows the score.

The lotus in the pond hears every single note.