Who Counts Leaves

or counts owls
on their fingertips

or lost words
on their tongues…

what is the point
they would say –

but, late today
I heard a sound

rise up from the edge
of a half frozen pond

something primitive
yet recognized and

familiar to the world
like the skeletons of

weeds that shook
the sound across the

snow covered fields
in beats and measures

of steady clicks –
groups of two, three

and four measured
beats or perhaps more

nothing tactile
but palpable -

like true harmony
urging on the

next
minute
of
time….