Poem | Air Waves

Set off by the light-governed timer
the lawn-sprinkler
waves a rain-wall of water
east and west.  A robin,
its bright beak still fledgling-yellow,
stands at the verge of the spatter-pattern
head tucked & tilted to hear imaging
loosed by the multiple resonances
a worm sets off as it shrugs itself
short/long/short in waves underground.

A plane goes over, high,
headed for Europe.  The robin
does not lift its head.
No worm-waves up there.