Looking Across the Meadow and Hearing the Birds Sing

Among my more irritating minor ideas
Was the thought that I could pull off this sort of thing,

Poke through someone else’s minor ideas, poor things.
It’s strange what human thoughts do when we hear birds sing.

Each bird is aiming at its own kind, ignoring
The shrill of every other species, best it can.

And us? We sum the whole together, none of it
Aimed at us. Concertare. As if a foolish

God we had never imagined as one of ours
Heard all our conversations, prayers, and chattering

As a single hymn, beautiful but alien,
Without grasping so much as one blessed message.

Maybe the sun is listening, that old rogue
And golden philosopher, curious perhaps

About what is going on in our one blue bead,
One of the buzzier that never cease buzzing

The dark around its minor, mediocre fire.
What would the listening sun think? What would it say?

Could a stellar furnace think the necessary
Things to parse our miniature cacophony,

Would it grasp a single thing our world has to say
About clouds, trees, birds, us—or think us all away?

What does it mean to think away? Just think away.
You go ahead. Don’t think you can think this away

Or that away. Lost in the middle of the day,
In the middle of my way, I heard the sun sing

A thing not planned for imagery or belief,
A stolen chorus. You didn’t hear it from me.