That's what we tell ourselves to explain
the ruffles in the air after a hummingbird
or mac truck speeds through, but what if
we actually live in an ocean of time
where what we name "wound" or "gift" shifts
up and down the weight of waves
that break or smooth out shining ridges
back to the undertow?

What if it's not really an ocean but still
an immersion, even on land into the roar
of cicadas, the gleam of a gingko leaf
on the ground, "You've Got Sunshine"
blaring so loud from the coffee shop
that the crow on a powerline tilts her head?

What if wounds or gifts are outside
dialect and syntax drained by the drought
of disappointments, and instead are simply
charms of goldfinch, conspiracies of ravens,
quarrels of sparrows, murders of crows,
museums of starlings, curfews of curlews
winging it to some place warm enough
to perch and actually rest?

That could be the gift outside of the word,
the sudden or long-time glimpsed arrival
to this turquoise table with this iced coffee
beside this statue of a golden Santa Claus
looking out the windows at light
once again sharpening its song
against scars and shadows.