Sing

I hear singing in the wind. Stop. Listen – is that what you hear, too? The sharp of whistling through high branches in lost yards in small towns settling into dust? There is singing there, too. Howling, even; over the glittery tops of ocean waves far in the middle of the nowhere out to sea, seen only by other waves, and no land anywhere in the four directions. Pull yourself together; listen to the singing.

To what heights can this sound go? What is at the top of the world, where there is only wind? Or is it spaceless and calm, like a hair in a mineshaft falling outward to rest in the stars at the center of the earth? This can be done; I promise. And you may only sing. This is what to do.

Come alive again. Please. And I will show you the singing. It is everywhere, but I will show you. Just rest here awhile, and listen to the cracks in the earth through which the possibility of sound arises. These are the holes in the world, like those holes in our head. Listen. Play out your part and leave it to rest in the backyard to be carried off by the breeze. Sing the brown world off into air.