sosometimes the baby crying is not just the soundit makes---more like the leaves rustling overhead, attentive yet unwilling to notice what everyone else sees

but chooses, like always, like now, the fresh cries

in the air, to leave for tomorrow or tonight or for 

someone else. there is no stroller--only the ground below

and the everything, and all its varied silences,

overhead. it's not meant to make perfect sense--

only imperfect awarenesss---no, more like the sounds

of everything and every future calling,

just high enough in the trees

to fall and rot. the baby still cries--in some ways

always will.