She snugged headphones over my ears
told me to raise a hand whenever
I heard a beep, no matter how soft or brief,
played a rolling ocean in one ear,
in the other a low chime, then a fly’s whine,
the wheezy squeak of a brown-headed nuthatch,
the faintest peep from the desert rain frog.

At each sound I raised my hand,
a half-hearted wave
to the blue whale’s low rumble,
the honeybee’s warm hum,
even to the whispery breath
of a monarch’s wingbeats.

You’re fine, she said,
no hearing loss at all.
But I knew she was wrong
as I walked out into the sunshine
straining to hear what was gone.