Listening

I am known for all the subject and matter that I will never know. At first light a cool breeze drops the small humming bugs from flagging brush and tree. The stabled horse and I have not met, yet in a distant stall I hear him wake up from his statuesque reverie, shuffle and fart – become a part of this harkening. The fields are covered in cuckoo spit where the dew strings it droplets, fungi creak open, spores dust a fecund earth in heat. I am unknown yet just as the sky is, as it waits to be painted. Listening, I hear through a keyhole drilled through an echoing skull. A cat wants to come inside so I let myself out.