The honeysuckle vines are disappearing
From the fence rows, the wild rose bushes
Rooted out like kudzu by backhoes
Trained to pasture and emptiness.
Even at daybreak, there is no sound
Of bird call, of chickadee, of cardinal or wren,
No flash of red in the fallen branches
Of sycamore trees near the low water crossing.
You put this in a list of things you liked
About me: “Aware of birds missing.”
The sound of missing things is louder
Than the machinery of taut barbwire fencing.
The sound of missing things arrives
In my days like autumn and the dying
Of the green into gold, the same time
That you came into my life.