"Bird Song"

"A bird sings and I don't know its name. The branch on which it perches sways with the rough wind but does not come close to breaking, secured as it is to the hulking trunk of a tree whose name I also don't know. The roots breathe beneath an earth riddled with greens of varied leaves and even diminutive flowers"

"that also won't tell me their names. I once told a room of young persons that every writer must first be a great observer, though I couldn't bring myself at that precise moment to look directly into their eyes. Were they even listening? Maybe I've grown tired of names-illusion of dominance. The bird the tree and the blanket of green will go on being what they were before the horse-drawn men with their ledgers. Before the first ever with their mitochondrial memories"

A bird sings from an unnamed tree. A branch sways in rough wind yet remains secured to a hulking trunk. Roots breathe beneath earth crowded with varied greens and diminutive flowers that refuse to reveal their names. A person tells a room of young persons that every writer must be a great observer but cannot bring themself to look directly into their eyes or confirm if anyone listens. Weariness with naming appears as an illusion of dominance. Nature will continue as it was before horse-drawn ledger-keeping and ancient mitochondrial memories. The bird stops singing and flies away.

Read at The New Yorker