To the language of lichen on stone,
the twist of a birch branch,
leaves cart-wheeling across the ground,
the dry rattle of spent flowers.
The flame of sumac has a sound.
You can hear the dark line of tide shifting.
On this farm:
A white horse lowers its head to the music.
A woman rubs a pale wheel of cheese with crushed herbs.
The taste of the forest is a love poem.
The goats bounding down the hill,
the tinkling of bells,
yet there are no bells,
just the fleeting sound of simple joy.
The woods singing.