sound installation

at the sound installation in Toronto

pamc’iyó·x̣o’yo’

we wait to hear

we are waiting with our ears

for the transmutation of birdsong to percussion, for the sound

of piano keys plucked to life

             by the call of dying birds

in the sculpture garden

             the only shape is sound

we are waiting for the carving of air

made by vibration

             but the speakers don’t breathe

except when a chord slips out,

a sigh

’iyó· x̣o’sa

I am waiting

for grief to lift, for a new story

            to arrive. The city vibrates with memories

and sounds that were birds are now hammers

on wire. Still

mic’yó·x̣o’six

we are waiting to hear

                                                       shorebirds

conscripted to sing their own dirge

on replay, over and over, while the local birds

             chatter and play, tossing notes

back and forth                       kíne koná

back and forth                       kíne koná

back and forth                       kíne

taqamic’yó·x̣o’sa

             I suddenly hear it, after waiting

I suddenly hear