sometimes, when a bird cries out,
or the wind sweeps through a tree,
or a dog howls in a far off farm,
i hold still and listen a long time.
my soul turns and goes back to the place
where, a thousand forgotten years ago,
the bird and the blowing wind
were like me, and were my brothers.
my soul turns into a tree,
and an animal, and a cloud bank.
then changed and odd it comes home
and asks me questions. what should i reply?