There is a hole in the mountain.
I have been watching from my porch
as it gets deeper, wider.
The trees go sliding downwards
in the way only very old trees grumble
at having to relinquish their chosen spot
to an impudent stranger –
– Like this hole.
Still the cavern grows, and smoke-backed birds
drift, suspended at its mouth,
then peel off to gossip and speculate,
perched in one of the shunted trees,
like those Grecian sisters who shared an eye,
discussing the sad truth;
The mountain is clearly going off the rails.
I can see it from my window
and hear strange creakings, whispers,
sighs from deep in its roots.
They grow louder…Crescendo
into a moan, then a bellow
and the cavern is roaring.
The air trembles with this strange sound,
until now unheard,
the kind of resonant music
that is swallowed over any long silence –
– and the moutain has been quiet forever.
Aching to speak,
it has dug down,
breathed in deep,
and found its voice.