I will sing my own song though my voice breaks over the crests and falters at the lows. I will sing with no words but that in my head. I will sing of a climb atop marble altars, the sowing of fields, and a harvest bountiful and *unavoidable*. I will sing from the tear in my chest, tone rising to ignite the air around. I will sing unhurried and joyful like the wood thrush at dawn. *The world will hear it. *