Cycling the north coast I think of the birth of cool
as a blue jay follows me, darting and dipping like Miles.

This sound is not ours alone. The trumpet in the darkened
club, dense with grief, with revelation, rises out of the blood

of all Earth’s creatures, out of the light that sinks into every
frantic eye, I know this bird is not sorrow. I know this bird

is not grief, but the dark clouds suckling the hills are almost
the breast that fills the baby—nearly the waves that slow the

backbeat to make the human swoon. I am riding north to
escape this body, to encourage wind in its persistent desire

to change us. I am riding bird and I am alone, like the giant
onstage whose eyes glaze to increase the miles, who welcomes

shocks from the road—a sudden lightning, because birds can
sense when the earth is about to give, its cymbals will hush…

when the sister mysteries will blow out the final note we love.