One night a neighbor in a tree loosed fireworks into my window. I held the small explosions in my throat, drank the pinwheel colors. I had been deaf until that bird peeled away my ear’s veils. Now sounds tumble through the day in enameled boxes: food, sex, predators. Luminous curlicues arabesque in my head, reverberant, and feather my ankles, narrating the instant, looping into a lariats of noise that snag a cloud above a tree. In the pause I can hear pillows whisper as I sink into their bodies, ending the day praising my narrow perch.