The fichus trees still buzz above the hubbub,
The streams still gurgle wide of every circuit
And frogs and baby squirrels mark the time.
The waves speak secret things
In curves of foam we hear
Without awareness.
The rocks face toward the sun,
Each one with more intelligence
Than we possess.
They wait in stillness
For us to discover what they know.
And then one day our thinking ends
On a rock blackened by battenings of foam
To find that all along we’ve known
How threads connect in current splay,
What seals and seagulls say
In nature’s constant “look at me,”
What the late sun helps the stones to speak.
