trees tuning up
waiting for the lifted arm
of our attention.

Raindrops passing slow,
neums of an older music,
people walking on the road,

or are we part of the chorus
only, this language business
so full and florid on our lips,
did somebody else say
what I think I’m singing?

Where trees outnumber people
logic, exhausted, sleeps
a galaxy apart. It’s raining,
sort of, or as Jack Spicer
would say, Believe the rain.

Means listen to it
as to the trees
the white cars passing
boys on the playground,
breath in your windpipe,
listen with your heart wide open,
sacred story stretched out
on the ground, the song we share.