Sometimes a hard sun
and a forest skull.
A terse note,
repeated down the line.

Then a hummingbird hawk,
lilt in her voice.
Flying in place
and baiting life.

Inside of me,
a monologue –
from Keelung to Kenting
“why and why not”

Each slow swing,
a trumpet glinting.
Waiting for me,
to give it life.