It is the lark. No. It is the nightingale.

Low tocsin cry
it is the train-or perhaps, a tugboat.
It blows, I never heard it blow like that,
blow so much, so slow can't tell what it's from,
echo of an echo of an echo.
Blow across the top of a half-filled Abita,
punctuated by the cackle of dying trees.
I stop to listen, parched.
It stops me here, between the in and exhale.

Look up. You can hear it, you can.
In the sometime, you will hear it
you own faint whistle pitched to you, only to you.
That tinkling bell,
sudden chime of broken glass which comes before?
Is it a warning?

The cry will fade, when you cannot make it go away.
It is out there and you will stop
and listen.
You will.
When it's time.
When it's time.