I live in a forest of falling things.
Wind brings down the brittle branch.
Rain brings down the leaf and needle.
They are messages falling from above
which we can open anytime and read.
There is a forest language they use
which is almost like a song.
In the spaces between its lyrics
a message is patiently nesting.
The rest is music for its own sake.
We, each one of us, are the melody.
The message is the silence.
It remains unheard.
I hear the forest singing.
I fall into that sound.