Seek a stillness in solitude with the wind's own sibilance.
Seek a stillness but not a silence:
Hush of breath, heart's ichor woosh, ceaseless whisper of world and whirl.
What words or wordlessnesses wayfare there?
Seek a stillness and hear.
Can we make the cooling cooking buzz of the far horizon,
The slow moan of plates and seas exalted and subsumed,
Patient histories of tribes and herds and trees?
Do we hear the grassy, snow-melting slouched shouldering of each season?
Do we hear the clicks and crunches of consume devour in root-balls and swaying blades of grass?
If we can hear these things, if we perceive some other scale of being, what does it say?
In my solitude, seeking stillness, I wonder at the power of the human day to overspeak, to stifle.
I wonder at the frailty of all these eternities in me collapsing in a human day
-- a scale of tires on roads, of cords and plugs,
the strange pains of want and need.
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