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