There are cows on the middle-of-May hillside
silent with the joy of green They are
far enough away that I can’t hear the swish-slap
of their tails the slow chew of grass or the occasional
buzz of flies that must surely be singing their names

What I can hear is the jiggle of Bear Dog’s collar
his heavy breathing as he tries to find a comfortable way
of stretching out on the porch A catbird layers
its mewing filling the oak tree with sound

I imagine I can hear the soft clap-cap applause
of two yellow-winged butterflies lifting butter
from the field of dandelions There is a tiny feather
fastened to a blade of grass Does the ant hear
its thunderous shiver? Does the chorus of birds
across the valley know how we need their song
how their one melodic string of pearls can make our day
send us into a world that has forgotten how to listen? — Ellen Kort