Under a cyclical canopy,
they have a quiet confidence
in leading their kind.
Whether sitting or standing,
they can tread the leaves for a lifetime,
in thrashing storms, midnight silence and droning dusk.
Their own voices muted.
We can’t hear their music,
or their oration,
or their soliloquies,
judging them dead, or worse,
having not lived.
Who knows their songs but them?
To whom even the rocks cry out
amid the falling trees.
and new seedlings.
I watched them amass
in the end zone section
at the football game,
and I thought of them as dots on lines
moving to an endpoint,
accumulating momentum as they went.
It was not Eden, but it seemed ideal
when the band played songs that everyone knew
and they all sang along
in short bursts of unity and cooperation.
Then they lost themselves in the festive atmosphere,
trying to be heard
as individuals in the rushing mob noise.
Later, they were given apples to eat
from a wax-coated box.
Afterward, everyone walked away
in different directions
just as he or she deemed.
Each went to their own endpoint,
some accelerating and others not,
still seeking wisdom in each their own way.