Beyond the creak and imminent break of one long bough
leaning heavily into the wind, is a call too easily solved
in the simplicity of its rhythm and disingenuous lilt – obviously
human, and not a bird at all.

I do not respond but instead curl deeper
into the luxurious mat of dry leaves
over loam deep with the scent of Gaia.

In my mind I still retain
the true calls, and the respective lengths
of each intended silence.

In that fabric – that dialogue –
is the coming actual.

Chagall 2018

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