Sunday, January 20, 2013

A rushing wind howls without rhythm and wild
Driving over the sere sleeping slopes
Rising and falling without pattern or meaning
Bringing up such a racket, percussive rattling of
The half-dead limbs and spidery half-broken
Twigs of winter-stunned wooded life waiting
Cacophony piled upon cacophony, yet the rattling
Brings rhythm into the previously-empty world
Emergent harmonies of limbs all more or less alike
Of a common length and flex and yet
Enough variance to bring high and low tones,
Fast and slow syncopations
Until the empty wood like an orchestra tuning
At the sound of three sharp cracks
A bough falls alone
Like a wand without conductor's guiding hand
And the wind and the wood sing forth in concert
For the sleeping squirrels and crows amazed awake.

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