-- after Joy Harjo
Do not become full of the story.
If the night wind tried to teach trees flight,
it has failed. The wind simply comes,
curtains expand like lungs, trees shake.
Since there is nothing to learn,
nothing can be taught. Don't call this wind.
Air moves as thoughts move. Both fill the room.
Oaks and poplars must stand outside and cast
their shadows over pale streetlights. Far off
in the blue of night, a saxophone plays. It holds
something of air and thought, the yearnings
of trees. Above, stars ascend in scales.
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