And they come to her,
moving slowly like a thread of notes
across the hill,
to stop at the fence,
stacked up in black and white,
a series of major to minor intervals.
To listen to this person
juggle sounds never heard from birds,
drop and catch a song
better than wind or storm, better than sun
spread on pasture.
They feel it in their bellies,
long draft at a cold spring,
a fizzing and a pop of constellations
moving through their great skulls.
Tiny woman spinning riffs,
a breaking tide of nothing known before.
When she starts to sing a ballad,
they all turn together
and walk away.