Читать книгу Trophic Cascade - Camille T. Dungy - Страница 11

Ars Poetica: Cove Song

One and two and three: in time,

white birds hum out of the choir

of air, while we tend our dark skin

with coconut oil, content to sing

a welcome to the high and low tides.

The sky song is a blues the sea

comes into on repeated lines. Why, even

the rocks sing, the reeds. This

is how we learn what game to lure

into what traps, which scales

to seek, which to keep at bay. We’ve heard

the mess those men have said. That

all we do is stand around and chatter.

It drives them mad, our simple acts

repeated for the pure pleasure of sound.

We’ve taught the flowers, high

and yellow, how to modulate

their tone. They used to come off sharp

and off-beat, but now they blend

right in. The men think themselves

industrious. Sword thrusting,

sea sailing: the purposes of their purpose

driven lives. It makes them crazy

to think we do nothing more than play

the lyre, sing all day. Like a group

of grade school boys trounced in debate,

they plug their ears and turn away.

Only one climbed the lookout

to listen. Does he hear? Even

the boulders’ jaws are wide,

even the canoe’s mouth joins our song.

The cloud is singing softly. Listen now,

her voice will blend with wind, with rain.