On Any Given Afternoon
As if from windows
framed on the ground the familiar
faces look up
toward the light the birds
above us whistle and trill and yodel
in. The green mat of their hair
at the margins, the dark centers of light
their remembered eyes are
in the earth...Their mouths
are closed and yet
words enter us
like song, like the presence of Being
itself, all
the lost loved voices singing out
the language of existence, its
deep warp of shadows
across the yard,
the countless
deer that move
invisibly near us
in the dense, syllabic woods