At the last turn in the path, where locust thorns
Halter my sleeve, I suddenly stand still
For no good reason, planting both my shoes.
No other takes its place when my noise ends.
The hush is on. Through the deserted boughs,
Through fireweed, bracken, duff, down to the ground,
The air comes as itself without a sound
And deepens at my knees like waste of breath.

Behind my back lies the end of the property;
Ahead, around a corner, a new house.
Barbed wire and aerials cross up and out
To mark the thresholds of man’s common sense:
Keep out, keep talking. Doing neither one,
Here, central and inert, I stop my mouth
To reassure all the invisible
For whom my sight and sound were dangerous.

Eyes in the wings of butterflies stare through
The hazel leaves. Frozen beside my foot,
A tawny skink relaxes on its toes.
I shift my weight. The sun bears down the hill,
And overhead, past where an eye can turn,
A hiss of feathers parts the silence now.
At my arm’s length a seedy, burr-sized wren,
As if I were a stalk, bursts into song.