Phineas Survives

Nightly imports from floating townships of owls:

I hear inside of inside – hear my hearing, heart –
at the bottom of a cabin’s chimney
which has started breathing. A tree

can be a very noisy place for living. I read

that the lyrebird can mimic any sound.
Car alarm and chainsaw surround the wood
and the wood repeats them. I re-read

that the lyrebird makes no sound at all
but its voicebox is a vacuum, and must be filled:
when it opens, you are already inside –

voice suspended in an amniotic of voice.
What is seen records what saw it.
I look at the fireplace until it fevers – flusters

as the wind calls down to it and listens for the echo.