Pada

It’s the extreme holophrasis
Of the nonhuman world that throws

Even skilled nonnative speakers.
Every sough, every deep, gravel

Rumble from somewhere in the hills,
Sounds like a word to human ears,

Or at most a phrase, just below
The threshold of comprehension,

But is actually an entire,
Compressed conversation. It’s strange,

To the quick-witted, verbal mind,
That such a slowly changing voice

From such a vertiginously
Ancient conversation partner

Should blurt in such severities
Of stereotyped elision,

As if the landscape had no time
To talk precisely, by the book.

But you see, the planet assumes
You are as old as your species

And have known the world for as long
As it’s known you. You may not speak

The language of the atmosphere
Beyond the simplest phrase-book lines,

Still, it replies with an easy
Familiarity, as if

A single crackling syllable
Encapsulates millions of years.