Written by Guest blogger Uli Nagel
Loud and Clear
I climbed the hill behind the house
Slipping on years and years of leaves
piled high on the steep forest floor.
the winter sloth
into the first breeze of spring,
and reached the top
of the rocky drop
into a valley
that belongs to maples;
a spontaneous reserve
on acres of abandoned paper mill,
sweet, untouched nature since the day
someone had dropped a tire there.
On the road below
A motor-bike roars: “ready to go”
Into the mild, soft air.
In front of me, below,
the tall straight maples are still,
so quiet, and that is strange
this time of year.
Just then I notice,
I did not listen hard enough,
No, soft enough,
to find the songbird’s octaves here.
They’re hidden in the cycle’s roar
just like the tiny
bodies in the trees.