No one is ever an expert
on evening air...
—C.B. Davis
In the country we speak native
languages.
The languages the birds
speak
are different than the languages
of air.
Have you heard the red language
of trees in Nova Scotia
where the tide listens to the
wind
blow each day in the Bay of
Fundy
Bluejays speak in synchopated
rhythm
like sultry evenings in New
Orleans
where a solo clarinet breathes
another kind of speech.
What is the language of
moonlight on trees
or of a wounded animal crawling
from the piano
after listening three days to Mozart's
sonatas.
Who is listening to the language
of cells-
reproducing, mutating and dying at will
taking the future brainsong with
them?
Je te aime un petit chat langue d' Oc
cat’s tongues. The language of
yes.
The blue resonance of flowers
keeps careful time with the sky.
When I was a child, each evening I sang:
Here kitty kitties, here
kit-kits, here kitty-wits.
The cats knew their song.
The native language of cats, a memory
following you at dawn
through the orchard.
The translucent ear looking like
a shell
in need of a tongue.
A deluge of words singing
waiting for delivery
A stirrup-cup of sound:
White noise
draped cat-like
over an armchair.
Have you heard the language of hibiscus
Plumeria behind the ear proclaiming love:
follow me.
Or the tilted spiraling language
of cantilevered hawk wings
leaving small resting places in the air
for the soft notes of feathers to resound.
Who is listening to the heavy-lidded language of eyes?
The sky language of a woman
sleeping alone, dreaming
whole bars of music
and understanding what the source is.
On a continual journey with no destination
the air speaks the only native language
the singing language of a single heart beating
of clouds, of thunder, tornadoes
the language of air calling you a song.
Birds of the air are closer to the source.
Air is the only true language.
perhaps the scimtar winged swallows
in their sanskrit flight
beating a cadence across the sky
are the only true experts on evening air.
whole bars of music
and understanding what the source is.
On a continual journey with no destination
the air speaks the only native language
the singing language of a single heart beating
of clouds, of thunder, tornadoes
the language of air calling you a song.
Birds of the air are closer to the source.
Air is the only true language.
perhaps the scimtar winged swallows
in their sanskrit flight
beating a cadence across the sky
are the only true experts on evening air.
date? guessing 83?
Files do corrupt over time, copying new copies of old files does not solve the problem. Original draft doesn't help much either, as I've changed it several times over. But at least it's some sort of copy. I found an intermediate version of the draft, and was able to replace corrupted text with that. It'll have to do.
added 10/15, 12/16
added 10/15, 12/16
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