The sky emerges
from a fallen branch
pierced just so to gather
shards of the first note
from its death throes
billions of years waning
in a vast silence,
shadow of perfection,
detritus of white noise
and innumerable strings
that wrought all existence:
the storming stars
and spheres of alien oceans,
home to the miniscule mind
of the tardigrade,
the collective intelligence
of the octopus,
our own thoughts
like a constellation of moths,
a colony of fungi
in the morning dew,
minute neurons
that piece together
disparate frequencies
into the illusion
of matter,
breath
through the singing
wood affirms
my being.