“Call me,” says the goldfinch, and I call.
No one notices. I think I can get away with it.
I talk like a bird. He ignores me. We have created a religion.
**
I trace the veins of the oak leaf that has fallen beside me.
“What an amateur you are,” I think. “What a jester, falling alone in the raspberry bushes.”
**
Think of D.H. Lawrence:
And the larch that is only a column, it goes up too tall to see:
and the balsam-pines that are blue with the grey-blue blueness of
things from the sea,
and the young copper beech, its leaves red-rosy at the ends
how still they are together, they stand so still
in the thunder air, all strangers to one another
as the green grass glows upwards, strangers in the silent garden.
Planet of the Blind 