even worms recoil

and crust in their

beds of moist soil--

sensing what flies

by night in their

lightless confine.

as birds leave traceless

truths upon the cuffed

enfoldment of their nook.

when morning breaks

open what has spread her

thin--her fingertips work

birds off the edge of the world.

where they produce voices...

it's a wonder the things they say.