Your bips and bops.

Your hums that hop.

Your whistles

seem to never

stop.

Your quirks and quips.

Your clicks and clacks.

Your squeaks and peeps.

Your snaps and smacks.

Sometimes you buzz.

Sometimes you sing.

Your sacred songs

take joyful wing.

They call it

noise.

A child without

poise.

I hear

a brain

finding

its voice.

The creek

keeps bubbling.

The leaves

clap too.

The crickets fiddle

the whole night through.

And the mourning doves

coo coo.

The whole wide world

keeps singing songs.

And listening

for you.

By Mandy Parida