One and two and three: in time,
           white birds hum out of the choir
of air, while we tend our dark skin
           with coconut oil, content to sing
a welcome to the high and low tides.

           The sky song is a blues the sea
comes into on repeated lines. Why, even
           the rocks sing, the reeds. This
is how we learn what game to lure
           into what traps, which scales,
to seek, which to keep at bay. We’ve heard
           the mess those men have said. That
all we do is stand around and chatter.
           It drives them mad, our simple acts
repeated for the pure pleasure of sound.

           We’ve taught the flowers, high
and yellow, how to modulate
           their tone. They used to come off sharp
and off-beat, but now they blend
           right in. The men think themselves
industrious. Sword thrusting,
           sea sailing: the purposes of their purpose
driven lives. It makes them crazy
           to think we do nothing more than play
the lyre, sing all day. Like a group
           of grade school boys trounced in debate,
they plug their ears and turn away.
           Only one climbed out the lookout
to listen. Does he hear? Even
           the boulder’s jaws are wide,
even the canoe’s mouth joins our song.
           The cloud is singing softly. Listen now,
her voice will blend with wind, with rain.