A clear chirp. The morning chooses to
suffocate itself in a maelstrom of
thickened, but mostly thinned, air.
A cuckoo meets itself in the midst of fields,
a silent chuckle — too early in the morning,
farmers are not awake. The lucid sound,
travels to the farthest of farmland
to remind himself that the highway ahead
is his own enfer. The sad, lonely reminder
that he owns the place. An unwavering
chirp, again and again, strikes the imbalance
that the ripened grains accidentally trigger.
A clear chip, continually resounds itself
until the end of day, reminding people the
sad life of a cuckoo. Yet nothing echoes.