One way to listen to the city
is to choose one sound above the rest;
let the ear engineer a soundscape; let it
glide across the crush of tender missions
at treacherous intersections, shun interlocked
brakes, fire smashed horns
from transplanted drivers; plunge against
the flow and attend the absence
of the Muezzin’s call in the gloaming.
Avenues drop rose-colored
light. I’ve been listening for the distant crow
of a rooster someone’s keeping close
whose cry erases the tumult–the marriage
of soil in a raised box for root vegetables
and the carrot of birdcall above the hum.
Every prayer is a gentle wish for a time
machine; every wish a feathered freefall
that robs the thanks from my lips;
listen for the chicken someone
can’t keep secret and be glad.
