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,
wise investment?
is there trustworthiness,
reliability?
is anything seeworthy any longer?
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.
musée 