Birdsong enriches the soil
where the trees won’t grow.
But the land is alive still.
Earth breathes
and sighs out mist
that clings and crystallizes
on the plants that
press themselves to
the landscape.
They are eaten by
hoov’ed crunchers,
who make a deep bass
when a hand pats
their side, and it echoes
over the open spaces
and thrums and dances
with the soprano of birdsong.