Be still, and listen to the
sounds of earth:
whispers of wind through the grass,
swaying of the branches in its dance,
how timorous the flight of
each set of segmented wings
separates time and space,
creating flight for instances
of insect peril.
How feathered beasts quell
thirsty beaks that pull back soil,
tree bark, and unroot small,
wriggling worms or larvae in
their sleepy hovels, unearth
small secrets hiding in plain sight,
their eyes fixed on baubles and trinkets
for their woven homes in trees.
To take flight in a moment,
the hind’s plight, the hart’s great
test against predator and play alike.
Listen for the brook untended,
the signs of life without souls,
but not without spirit, something
overlooked in assessing the worth
of water and rock.
It is the essence of man to take from
seemingly useless and create use,
but for this age it is a burden
that has been cast to better men.
It is in the stillness of a meadow,
the life of what is living with us,
alongside of us, without aid,
nor merchant purpose.
That is not the fate to what we
were given to care for, allow
the earth to rest, grow fallow,
yet industry and trade barter
better than the fields of earth,
unturned by spade or shovel,
untouched by man’s presence
Where stars align under no moral,
and moon guides no purpose greater
than what it is, this is where I urge
you to listen, and speak when you
have heard me.