musée

if a forest of family trees fall
and we hear every single beat
is there such a thing as sound, after?

is there deep sleep,
good judgement,
trustworthiness?

is there music?
singing?
or only the roar of an Amazon slashed-and-burned,
of ancient Redwoods a hundred meters high,
toppled,
roots splayed to the Heavens –
all the Wonder in this Natural World
scorched,
rotting,

silent.