Listening, standing still,
neurons are on fire, all or nothing, eyes fixed
on some coriaceous juncture
of earth and leaf
and tree,
a slow syllable
their language something to hang a hammock upon,
to repose between their words.
Neurons mirror their pause.
Cura Cura hee Sha hee
sha
sha
wind in the elms, in the grandfather pines
The marsh beyond
ss ha ss ha
ss ha hoo shu
hoo shu
An oyster, its shell cupping the gradual wash
of tide over the mud it is buried in.
Oh ha
oh ha
oh ha
The voice of a star uncurling its gases,
Ss
long silence between
Ss
snaking out from its hazy corona
of hydrogen atoms splitting apart.
Ah Sss, Ah Sss, Ah Sss, not a snake
but gas slipping out of gravity.
A muted push of force,
a wooden blade
wuffling as a samurai swings his practice sword
under the bow of a paper lantern tree.
Ah ha
Ah ha
breath
breath
breath
*
And of a small town?
Squeaking signs,
Squea-hah, squea-hah.
It wears its heart on it sleeve.
As if there was any other choice in the matter?
As if the sun would shine in any other fashion?
Mr So and So watering his lawn,
cha cha cha cha cha,
the slough of brooms, rish rash rhsh
the rat-tat-tattings of kitchen cutting boards,
sunny apples smacking back and forth,
the wet sluck of a oyster knife cutting into the fat muscle,
the smacking garlic and the leather lemon
squeaking across front teeth at dinner.
To be the short Ah
or the long swinging J
the short irs of birds in high pine nests,
so say rushes and reeds and evercalls.
so say the shas, the shi sha, shi sha of spring trees
thrashing in tall wind,
the tall wind that tells the peach tree
and brown earth pushed up against the trunk
to hurry up.
I could ask the same of you.
Let sound come to you.
Let them carry a note on the wind, let them
carry a word if they can. Let them carry the language
of a wave over the mud in a shell through high winds to you.