The Grass Speaks

The grass speaks
in a subtle tongue
of soft rustling
undulating with the wind's movement
in patterns recurring

the hawk knows this sacred language
she too speaks in tongues
as she watches with intent
for a quiver, a twist
a crackle, a crunch
a small separation between stalks of grass
then she dives, rises on high
with a soft, warm, wilted mouse
clutched in her talons

the grass converses with me
in a language I know
in its arrangement of sound,
much is conveyed
with faint variations on a note

the fox talks this language
of wind and earth and green
twining in and out
as the grass sways
unseen then seen
at once visible and invisible
becoming one with the grass
as she moves on soft feet
to her finish

I recline on the generous earth
protected from sight
by the waist high pale green gold depth
I watch blue sky
white fluffy clouds drift overhead
the buzzing of cicadas overflows
and as the grass whispers
I listen

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