My tracks criss-cross the plain seeking secret passages through this snow and ice – fragile threads following flesh’s bare sustinance – but it is my voice that weaves the subtler cloth. Colder wind howls through me, up and over the cords im my throat, to echo and reverberate on the soil and sky. Its threads draw together the very hearts of hill, burrow, rock, feather, fur, leaf, and stars into its weft.
Please listen. Or no. Don’t. My song is not for you. If you would understand it you would do better not to listen, but to spend time out here in your home.
Out here on the plains, freeze in the winter night, feel the summer sun sharpen the blades of the grass, the mouse hides from my jaws in transparent shadows, and restlessness prarie dogs are tempted out of thier holes by curiosity. Pollen drifts sliently to next years roots. Locusts, cacophony of ruin, will fill a belly. Hawks draw the sky nearer, searching. Crows lead me to that which I had missed. The cold and distant stars are drawn to warm the plains.
My voice tracks through it all and nakes of its secrets a single home.
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