Reopening the Country, It Seems

Crickets are hitting their stride
As the higher mesas bloom
And the taller grass springs back.

It’s a three-tiered orchestra,
What with wind and the song birds,
And the crickets all pulsing.

Now and then, some percussion
Of another pick-up truck,
A bumblebee, a large fly,

Punctuates complicated
Patterns in these randomly
Interwoven harmonies,

But mostly they’re just steady
Overtones and undertones,
Like a mass of hardängers

Of different shapes and sizes
In different materials,
All playing, just loud enough

For the others that matter.
The crickets strum for themselves,
A single-species chorus.

The birds aim trills at rivals,
Partners, and the clear blue air.
The wind plays out of the trees,

As if each tree were singing
In metaphors from Zhuangzi.
But the wind isn’t playing,

Really, it’s only its waves,
And if trees are signaling,
They sign molecularly,

And best of all, all the sounds
These words try recreating
By plucking on memories

Themselves sing no meanings meant
To communicate to me.
What? Best of all? Yes. The best.