The bird wedges its voice
into the silent crevices
between raindrops.

The shower fades and slips by
like the last time my daughter
came running from the playground to greet me,
her entire body smiling,
her face full of light,
to leap into my arms.

She is running toward me now,
again and again,
but first and last are as lost
as individual drops of rain.

When was the early bird
joined by the other members of the ensemble,
all gossiping now on the risers?

When did the air’s perfume
begin to drift away?

Taking the small hand of my attention,
which has again wandered back into
what was and what might be,
I gently guide it back to all this silence
which all this music seems to be written on.