Sometimes when a bird cries out,
or the wind sweeps through a tree,
or a dog howls in a far-off farm,
I hold still and listen a long time.
My world turns and goes back to the place
where, a thousand forgotten years ago,
the bird and the blowing wind
were like me, and were my brothers.
My soul turns into a tree,
and an animal, and a cloud bank.
Then changed and odd it came home
and asks me questions. What should I reply?