Its sounds come and go with the breezes
I hear them in the afternoon when nature
drifts from the heat of the sun
I imagine an older man on a porch
somewhere beyond the trees,
his melodies plaintive but for
a light frolic now and then
As rare as the flute, faint chimes
from another direction tingle lightly
just within hearing
The pandemic has silenced the meadow
I hear the birds only at dawn and dusk
They abide in their nests as we do
inside our houses, away from fear
The music on the radio seems too raucous,
even for the dead who cannot hear anything
I hike along the ocean to hear the reliable
crash of the waves
When the birds celebrate the coming of the sunset
I remember I once listened to symphonies