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.

 

I huff-puffed

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,

no,

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.