How hard it is on the ears, the first
shattering of human voices. Even far
away, they are too loud, they crowd the air.
The birds, who are in the habit of listening
to each other and measuring
the significance of silence
between calls, are wholly silent here; no bugs’
chorus times its harsh rattle; the coal blue wasp
on his mathematical rounds does not come here;
nor can I hear the frog’s murky pause.
Each year, at forest’s edge, I have to promise myself
never again, leave the fullness of my senses
like a brown cloak pooled in the brush, go forward
on bare feet, nerve bared, skeletal as hope.