Listening

If I stand tree still,
rooted in the now,
if I listen with my blood,
can I, can I hear the
earth whispering?

Can I sing with a crow,
caws long, caws short,
riffing jazz corvid
rhythms in palm trees,
heads bobbing, turning,
till other crows fly in
to see what's going on
and I, feeling an imposter,
sneak uncrow like away?

If I listen with my blood,
can the slow rising tide
of spring sap echo in
me till I hear the earth turn
and the owl lay her eggs?

If I stand tree still,
rooted in the now,
can I hear the death rattles
of fallen tigers, bodies
tagged and numbered for parts,
their ghosts' cries distant
ripples in the night air?

If I listen with my blood,
can I, can I hear the
earth whispering,
can I translate these songs
as a lover would who knows
the secret words, the secret places,
the private language of her sighs?

© Zen Oleary
February 18, 2003