We missed the star charts 
speckling the eggs of crows -
a commission that worked
well for the birds, who have
no interest in ruling, yet
on occasion love to upend
our hubris, when we notice
the joke is on us, pointed 
as a well knapped flint. 

The bees danced the coordinates
wiggles and hops and shakes
of where to find the ship,
when to meet them.
Lyric instructions are the way
civilized entities send invitations.
They really liked the soft fuzz
and kicky color scheme, the honey 
an inspired touch. They got their hopes 
up, waiting.
          For an entire year, all 
echoes dampened themselves, no one
wants to risk the ways the message might
get distorted in the bounce.  These 
things are meant to be taken in 
before repeating. A swallow before
reflecting. We barely detected 
the change, so few feet 
still planted in wild enough 
places to talk to the livid 
earth and let her 

respond patiently in our voices.
In the cities, the sirens, the grind
of our handicrafts don’t leave much
room for return, even sound.
So it goes: if you do not notice, 
the universe won’t hold it against you.
The scouts keep flowing when they are unmet -
like time, like glass, like loneliness.