Two years ago, here,
I jotted in this notebook
to you each day.
You would speak
to the trees, gather with a group of them,
like sisters,
& you would touch one,
it seemed, sensing their
heartsound.
[…]
Now knowing that when I return to the city,
you’ll be gone, I’ll leave you here,
monkey girl, where the wind
from Misty Lake through the
Tamarack woods is the murmur
of your blood in my ears –
& the tree’s ears too,
which as you told me, of course,
are their leaves,
& which I’ve stolen one
from a Juniper, I think,
or maybe an oak, I’m not sure
and, any way, have hidden
in this notebook,
in the gesture
of silencing; or,
no…
listening.

– Grassy Bay, Algonquin