Last night you were kept awake by the sound
of whatever you thought this country was
fleeing like geese from winter.
All that harsh honking: the sound of illusions
soaring, diminishing, flying away.
It kept you up fretting and polishing your weapons.
When you raised the living room blinds,
on the ground below the window one cardinal,
one squirrel, three chickadees,
two mourning doves. Less sound than before
but this is your country in daylight. This is where
you are. Feed the birds that have stayed.