Finger-like beams of light tickle the earth.
The growth of the pale Indian Pipe,
I can hear it.
Pushing ever so slowly upward with no sound
Except the satisfying slow crackle of last year’s oak leaves.
You have only to stop, pause for a moment, and listen.
It is a forgotten skill, listening.
Has it been lost? Or maybe replaced?
But by what?
A Robin disrupts the scene,
Landing in the leaves, amplifying the crackle.
And I move on.
But some feeling remains,
Hidden beneath last year’s fallen oak leaves,
In the sound of growing Indian Pipe.