Think of the girl (or boy; it doesn’t matter)
too lost in her own head to hear the bird.
Quick, it would say, find them, find them,
but she misses the direction. Deep inside,
a history of birdsong. Twit twit jug jug
tereu it goes back thousands of years,
to a wood where you can never find your way.
She blinks and realizes the glinting heat
outside. The sound is already gone.
The empty air falls heavy on her ear.
— Rebekah Curry