A bird sings and I don’t know its name.
The branch on which it perches sways with the rough wind
but does not come close to breaking, secured as it is
to the hulking trunk of a tree whose name I also don’t know.
The roots breathe beneath an earth riddled with greens
of varied leaves and even diminutive flowers
that also won’t tell me their names.
I once told a room of young persons
that every writer must first be a great observer,
though I couldn’t bring myself
at that precise moment to look directly into their eyes.
Were they even listening?
Maybe I’ve grown tired of names—illusion of dominance.
The bird the tree and the blanket of green
will go on being what they were
before the horse-drawn men with their ledgers.
Before the first ever with their mitochondrial memories
of ice. So much ice and so many names for it.
And, anyway, the bird has stopped singing
and has flown from the tree in the park,
the man thinking the wind rushes past him
as if running away.