Sam Peabody

Jerica Taylor

His name rings out, over the idling of the car,
a flute in a symphony of sky above me.
Someone’s mundane business conducted in song,
and I don’t have to do anything but listen.

Have you ever called out
with the confidence of a tiny brown bird
wearing yellow jewels like buttercups?
Have you ever been held by the trees?

In this moment, I am loved the way
the white-throated sparrow is loved; for existing.
For its song, no matter how many times it needs to sing
the same notes over and over. I am heard.