Silence rises in the canyon,
wilding in like fog, clinging
to buckthorn and desert mallow,
the sharp contours of the hills,
the split to the Backbone Trail,
the curls of the dried-up stream
and fallen sycamore leaves.   

But there is the whisper of a fly  
on manzanita, washing its face, hands,
a trace of spider breath,  
web rustling like the distant fall of air,  
sparkle echoing across a rock.   

There is the faintest whoosh
as rocks dissolve into sand,
the willow’s bark loses its finish,
ferns unfurl, dry, and fall,
chaparral swallows air and light.    

There is the thrum of the hummingbird’s thin heart,
the slurp of the bird juicing a bloom,
the rasp of butterfly wings,
the crackle of a stinkbug’s steps,  
the susurration of a king snake’s slink.    

There is the deer’s intake of breath,
the chuffle as it gulps up water,  
drips from its muzzle,  
the nosing of a doe and her fawn,
their dreams as they sleep under a tree.    

Hear the silence  
of the canyon.   

Listen, for the silence is telling.

This poem first appeared in Albatross (Spring 2021)..
Used here with permission.