The ferns pushing up their fiddle heads

in the window box are not the delicate

things conjured as mouse-sized violins

for a fairy hoe-down with sprightly reels

bowed on gossamer strings,

rather these are colossal, dark and hairy,

Late Cretaceous holdouts unfurling scrolls

of primordial bass viols that drone a C so

low only creatures house-crushingly huge

might tap their massive toes.

The panes through which I stare tremble at

the sound or maybe its just me that shakes;

either way I’m certain that while the music

of nature deserves attention, seeing who

else is listening does not.

©Dana Hughes 3.13.17