All my exhortations to show up
at the studio door, the desk, the page—
what’s missing still? The willingness
to pay attention to the everyday—to say
how last night the racket along the road
by the marsh was Hyla crucifer—
spring peepers lost in their urgent trilling,
mating songs so loud Will thinks
his tire bearings are giving out—
and we roll down the car windows
to listen to the sound that continues
even though we’ve stopped.