To which sounds
shall my hardened ears direct
their awareness?

Perhaps the single – no,
repeated – scream of a broad-winged
hawk circling
overhead, lost
from view through clutters of barren
branches or the pleasant
chatter of nearby chickadees

Maybe the protesting crunch – crunch of snow as boots break
through its glazed
surface, or the puluhp of a trusty Hazelwood
walking stick;
ambling tinkle of a brook’s iced-up
flow, or full-throated rush of a wider
falling torrent;
nostalgic call
of a freight train six
miles distant, or excited
bark of a four-legged on Jeremy’s Trail

Perchance words of encouragement to a creaky
knee that resists the ill-fitting
frozen boot-tracks other pilgrims
have carved along Jenne’s Loop;
uh-WEE, uh-WEE, uh-WEE
of arms that slide across goose down
in rhythm to a pace

Now the persistent howl of January’s cutting
wind as the route
wends from protected woods to sleeping
field
scratching whispers of autumn’s
orphans — at last papery
and brown — carried
in dribs and drabs across
the tundra.

Toward which sounds
I wonder and then
I try hearing
my own
true note, the one
that courses through me like
underground rivers no
douser would find.

a single true note

Because the ancients
tell me that
when
all beings utter their
own true
note perfectly
then
all creation will once
again
be perfect.

© Jennifer Comeau, 2015