from a line after Matt Mauch 

When the fin had no choice but to turn into finger, 

the skull nub into antler, 

what faith have you left us with

when alteration forward 

is as solid as copper? 

Perhaps, the unused ranges of our voice-box 

will give way to only one 

monotonous note, because in this lifetime 

we have all stopped singing. 

Since we forget to hear the talking of trees, one to the other, 

trunks swirling in aria, 

roots' muffled stretch through soil, will you unravel the nautilus 

of our inner ear? 

The body we are now will not be our body 

in the future.