Sometimes the woods at night are so still

the sound of your own breath

abashes you, to say nothing

of the racket as you walk.

Sometimes talking helps, saying

a poem, or even, if you’re going downhill,

singing. Other times there’s nothing

to do but stop and listen, or even sit

and close your eyes in the name

of attentiveness. In daylight,

there are birds, and for some reason

the wind too is always awake,

delivering weather or dust.

At night, you concentrate,

your listening is enhanced,

and sooner or later you will hear

a scale of bark let loose from a tree

or a needle tick from limb to limb

on its enormous journey to the earth.

And sometimes, having resumed

your walk, you will stop at the top

of the ridge above your house.

Its window lights will illumine the ground

around it, and you will listen again