It’s no small thing to learn the names
of the birds you hear each day,
perched on the tops of coneflowers
gone to seed, calling from the hedgerow.
It’s no small thing to belt out
Cardinal, catbird, goldfinch, when you
stop between breaths to listen,
teasing out their strands of song
from the rustling of river birches
and the distant roar of a lawn mower.
It’s no small thing to go so quiet
you hear the chorus of your thoughts
crescendo, then fall away as you
notice the patch of sun on a stone wall
blanketed in sphagnum moss,
and imagine the unseen beings—
nematodes and water bears—who
thrive in tiny pools of rain suspended
between the moss’ tiny leaves.
—James Crews
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