Some hear rain. Some hear the cracking whip
that illuminates a star-dusted sky. Some
hear cold tremble of white fur, soft eyes, as
the intake of breath becomes softer with each.
Some hear the startle of the ants dwelling,
a swell of bodies together in fear,
as the tree bark cracks.
Some hear the gentle slope of the quivering forest,
a harrowing descent into whiskey dark.
Some hear hollowed out emptiness
that rain makes when knocking on a tree,
inside smelling of pine and empty
nests. Safe here, safer, save her. Drip
drip goes the pine, as a thick gaze falls
upon a branch too far to reach.
Alone, where some hear soft crackling
of the fire embracing wood, she can hear
the stream of mumbled prayers from her to
the tawny owl to the dry-creak bed,
soaking into each crack like a parched breath.
Does she imagine she will ever leave?
still, be still, still be—here, always.
Some hear tired maples sleeping by
rivers, their roots flowing like smoke to
find something beautiful, yet lost.
Is it loneliness, she sees?
Do they wander without ever reaching?
The panther’s paws are placed
in the wet dust of morning.
The grass is dewy, soft under the
hard boot-tread of her feet.
She can wait until the stars align in
the saddle-shape of soft leather and emptiness.
She can wait to cry in the dawn, where
the grey is ugly and she is still broken.
But she is alone and lost in a patchwork quilt,
a soft sinew that will don a snowcoat soon.
But the night is long and she is endless,
her arms stretching to the treetops,
her lips brushing against weary memories
that she has her whole life left to uncover alone.