Nature is not to be exploited, to satisfy our need for silence.

The swallows are not silent;

their lovemaking to the valley is not silent.

The ferns, gathering in colonies, are not silent.

the oak, braided with the hair of Medusa, is not silent.

Silence means listening to what is not said.

Like the rebellious lump that camps in my throat.

A scream. Loud. Ferocious. Real.

Screaming:

“Give everything its voice back.”

We turn to nature for silence,

denying their sovereignty.

The swallows’ lovemaking in the valley is piercing.

The ferns, gathering in colonies, are the rustling drum of wind.

The oak, braided with Medusa’s hair, is hissing.

Nature is not silent.

Our ignorance is loud.

Cloaked in borrowed silence,

We fooled ourselves it was.

—

medusa tree