In the low rushes where the grouse was caught
it has a name they do not know that speaks
to the sage and the juniper berries,
to the breeze and the mother of the wind;
un nom de guerre to suppress the sort of attention
that has gotten him taken.
To think that a whole long parade of breaths,
a seamless string of organic interactions has totally ceased
in these few moments is absolutely absurd
but it is well known in these parts
that invested effort can come to nothing
in the long-shot moment of fate.
In the low rushes where the grouse was caught
silence prevails in the evenings where once
names were chittered in the foliage with affection
between this and that mortal little bird;
someday things will swing back to the unspoken language
of the sage and juniper berries, of the breeze and mother of the wind.
(c) 2007 Dorothy J. Burk
