At four, you try and try again,
say you’ll never learn but persist
pushing breath through pursed wet lips
in a silent stream of hope
to master acoustic acrobatics.
Your body is exquisitely structured
to enable the fluid mechanics,
muscle constrictions
and other requisite functions
that your tongue, lips and lungs
maneuver to align in your longing
to whistle like a warbler.
In the car, at a light, windows down,
an old tune floats on air.
I hear my grandmother whistling
from some chamber, a memory
as sound resonates beyond.
Behind me you’re whistling
like you’ve been trilling
your whole little life.
