Birds warble like never before as I walk
and ponder my new conceptus interruptus:
sensing my way instead of playing
my strong suit, intuiting my every move.
It’s odd country, and here comes this hitherto
completely mute intelligence
in me. As I meet its pace and greet it,
I hear my own voice and thus learn
and can then relay a very different song and dance.
The part of me that always ran this show
is still grand master, but here, limbs engaged
in whatever tongue they’re bringing,
receptors firing, what arises may only be translated
on these unmapped routes I’m traveling.
Now, this season, past fantasizing
and romanticizing, even if just for milliseconds,
this minor voice is in fact a new force,
big wind blowing through this valley tonight.
#25 of 30 poems in 30 days for National Poetry Writing Month, April 2017