This morning brought
an achy rain—
the kind that intensifies
as soon as it lets up
into a steady pounding
on the treehouse rooftop
nestled in a Massachusetts forest
that holds your childhood still
and silent. And one bird after another
begins to mimic the sounds of the city:
car alarms, fire truck sirens,
a phone ringing in the distance.
You swear you can hear
an old-fashioned busy signal
in the park’s garden of the seasons,
startling its dragonflies
and purple flame grass.
Perhaps some old crow
there to remind you to be patient,
to try again later.