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When Trees Fall

When Trees Fall

Yes of course we make a sound. All of us here
when you do not. 

Just this morning (as you slept) every stone spoke in a vibratory roar so loud, the sea responded in kind. Spruce, bark-beetled and wind-cracked, returned with an earthheart-thumping crash. Moose calves paused their murmuring to listen. Raven, perched on a squeaking branch, whisper-ruffled wing feathers, then sent plop-plop-droppings to the ground. Bear, woken by the buzz of flies on shit, grunted and rose, scratching thick-itchy-furred back against cracking, splitting bark. Morning birds sang. Bear drummed rough-duffed feet against the still settling stones, humming with aftershock, and angled toward the scrape muted by river rush: salmon fin, greeting rock. 

Nothing vibrates in isolation. Every form is heard
one way or another. Yours is the voice that depends
on you.

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