Walking the washout, high desert
ground between pond silt and
prairie pasture, I know to look
for crushed cans, bits of barbed
wire, and runaway fence staples.
Only to find you crouched,
invisible and silent, refusing to
see me even as I bend close. Not
a blink of eye, so wildly strong.
So committed to life as to play
dead. Brave hatchling, as you grow
you will find your voice, singing out
your name, race-walking in a stilted
gait, an undeniable citizen of this
pond. Too often humans lose voice,
fearing it won’t be missed in the
din and flap of a chaotic world,
forgetting the indisputable power
of a single call, clear and true,
to lift the quality of the very air.
Anna Blake at Infinity Farm