Sound Installation
By Beth Piatote
At the sound installation in Toronto
pamc’iyó·x̣o’yo’
we wait to hear
we are waiting with our ears
for the transmutation of birdsong to percussion, for the sound
of piano keys plucked to life
by the call of dying birds
in the sculpture garden
the only shape is sound
we are waiting for the carving of air
made by vibration
but the speakers don’t breathe
except when a chord slips out,
a sigh
’iyó· x̣o’sa
I am waiting
for grief to lift, for a new story
to arrive. The city vibrates with memories
and sounds that were birds are now hammers
on wire. Still
mic’yó·x̣o’six
we are waiting to hear
shorebirds
conscripted to sing their own dirge
on replay, over and over, while the local birds
chatter and play, tossing notes
back and forth kíne koná
back and forth kíne koná
back and forth kíne
taqamic’yó·x̣o’sa
I suddenly hear it, after waiting
I suddenly hear
