LEAVE A MESSAGE
When the wind died, there was a moment of silence for the wind. When the maple tree died, there was always a place to find winter in its branches. When the roses died, I respected the privacy of the vase. When the shoe factory died, I stopped listening at the back door to the glossolalia of machines. When the child died, the mother put a spoon in the blender. When the child died, the father dug a hole in his thigh and got in. When my dog died, I broke up with the woods. When the fog lived, I went into the valley to be held by water. The dead have no ears, no answering machines that we know of, still we call.
From Bob Hickok.