I see myself there–
a small house tucked under trees
looking down on water.
One table, one chair, one plate.

For company, only creatures
with four legs or two wings.
They go about their business
unconcerned with me. 

For conversation, only songs
that rise from bullfrogs, fall
from birds, ruffle through trees,
tap softly on the roof.

Would I miss them–
strangers on the street, 
living their intense lives,
too busy to notice me?

Insistent beat of someone
else’s music, broken bits
of conversations, half heard
stories hinting at other worlds?

And if I never heard
another siren, 
how would I know
when to pray?