I waken from isolation with the noise of birds.
Only they are not alive. They are dead and chattering away.
As if high pitched notes of a woman wounded by the wayside.
How words subdue all nature. Throw another wren into a ditch.
This is the image I see tonight on a beach full of stars.
When all others see joy in their mineral tonics
that promise miracles and cures of all ills.
Again, I hear the birds. I never drink.