Prayer of Thanks with Songbirds

The sun reveals the poems
that magic black night leaves:
a granary of knowing
where all is as it seems,

no larger than the current trails
inside the whispering trees,
no smaller than the vast machines
that churn out ways to see

if not for the whirring
of the solitary
turning like an owl's head
all around

to the orchestra in the leaves,
all music save the tiny sight
of finch and chickadee
flying between boughs quickly.

So inexplicable
the codes and the notes,
how they connect
every tree in the world