Suddenly, in the museum of birdsong
I remember the brightness of his flaxen hair.
How my boy lit the nursery room himself.
As himself.
That was why he could not sleep.
Could not lie still in his crib,
had to hoist himself over the railing,
patter around the braided rug in his footed pajamas
climb the creaking rocker,
horsehair stool, and arm chair
where he dangled
from one upholstered wing
then the other.

I had witnessed everything
except the Disappearance. Replacement.
Transformation
from small kinetic light boy
to great dazzling moon-faced barn owl.
Stillness on soft feathered legs,
Pale toes curled over the headboard
with its cut out Peter Rabbit.

No sound.

This is what I both remember
and learn
in the hushed velvet galleries
of the museum of birdsong,
where all the docents are deaf
and their nimble white-gloved hands
arrange the air

their palms upon my chest
fingers fluttering against my lips.