You didn’t hear the breeze through the rushes—
the sifting sound, like sand through your hands—
or linger for a breeze to come again
to hear them whispering and feel their hushes
as calming as the ripples in the creek
that washed around their deeply secret feet.
Voices that the towhees heard—and me—
once upon a morning, like a dream.
You didn’t hear the wind that caught their spirits,
even as they murmured in your ear.
You were there, but were you really there?
Who else along with me lately hears it,
and pauses on the path, as if a prayer
is spoken from its knees into the air?