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Nothing the hedgerows say

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I’m enclosed by encrypted conversation:
thickets of pulses and whistles and clicks. Songs.
Each border with a voice distinct as a man’s –
each tree, a tongue. I hear the grass gossiping,
repeating what it thinks the wind has told it;

hear it whisper a secret from blade to blade,

rush it away in all directions at once.
Silence from me and the water overhead,
now a dragon, now a sleeping boy. Dumb shapes,
fathoming nothing. Nothing the hedgerows say.

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