Land is incapable of speech,
nor does it know anything.
This (or something like it)
was told to me
not too long ago.
In the pink air of morning,
I sit beneath a tree
of some unknown genus
and find myself surrounded
by blazing foothills
that make up my home.
All I do is watch.
All I can do
is watch.
But then the long black cloak
of my grief slips suddenly
from my shoulders;
The bitter vise fastened to my throat
is loosened, if only for a moment,
as I listen to the land
that is capable of more
than any of us truly know.
