Somewhere, under the bent branches,
heavy with snow, waits a whisper.

A whisper of all that space has seen-
    the wolf sifting slowly through drifts of snow.
    the deer pausing, alert and eying the depths of the wood.
    centuries of life moving through this clearing.
And the wind will come.  And the wind will carry the whisper.
Carry it to the ear of a poet that will
write the wolf to life, and lower, once again, the deer's head
to graze.  

And the centuries that had lived in that clearing will be given
words and life.  And the centuries more
will hear the whisper and know the clearing.