“That song comes from sorrow there is no doubt. / Bullfinches in ancient times had eyes put out / so they would sing more sweet. Think of / those black beads dropped to earth coming / to seed flowers turning inward every single / one of them without its sight. / Stories say that moving in the wind they / made up song as if nothing had been lost and / this rings long into the night. Every sound / we hear turns to a bigger one and each is true. We add our own until it is the first din ever heard, the way poetry begins. — Grace Cavalieri, “A Field of Finches without Sight Still Singing,” Sounds Like Something I Would Say (Casa Menendez Press. 2010)”