by Richard Angilly (USA)

I follow a tiny tiger striped spider across the turned up tangle
of tumbled leaves until I lose it in the bird calls
the chasing of wings, the flooded creek
the trees’ steady constant droning.
Just part of the resounding scene
flickering here & there, back and forth
in comings and goings, new lives, old decays.
Amplified, as time, it makes us shout—
not to be heard or recorded, but a felt in the part
in this fabric,
this texture, this intricacy.
This – all this
organic music.

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