It is the nature of voice

To yell, to holler, to make noise
To tirade, to coax, to matter
To migrate across lands and seas, and much after.
It migrates in flocks,
Recounting the much distant pasts and the intangible futures
Of you, of nature, of planes, of rocks.
My voice is often silent, for I must protect her
And yet within myself, in both sun and moon,
Amongst all the other birds of speech,
I can hear my own homeless bird croon.
She scours the universe, a home just out of her reach,
Pushing the cosmos out of her way,
But I am sure, in these words, my bird does stay.