I want to be heard, not seen. The tick of the clock on the wall. The rustle of leaves in wind. The snort of deer in the trees. But no, I want more. I want to be the voice in the loudspeaker. The advocate righting wrongs. The words on the page. I dance along the fence of seen and not-seen. I twirl and bow when nobody’s looking. I speak out, then worry who I’ve offended. The young buck stands in the gravel driveway. I drive slow so my hybrid car shuts off the gas engine, runs on batteries. Stealth mode. I can hear each rock crackle under my tires. The buck dares me to come closer, closer yet. Each crackling second is like a tiny electrical charge. The buck leaps over the split rail fence as easily as neurotransmitters diffuse across synapse gaps to bind with receptor sites. Words. Neurons fire. I tolerate being seen to be heard.