Where does one turn
When one tires
Of words
And tires
Of silence
 

There is a kind of music
Made high in the pines
By wind

There is a kind of music
Made when water
Falls over step-stones
In the creek
 

There is a kind of music
Made by anxious crows
And a rhythm in the catch-clicks
Of squirrel speech
 

In the company
Of such composers
One needs no words
Or silence