A wolf is only a wolf. A raven, a raven. A rock is just a rock and a river, a river. The trees and the wind are nothing more. The forest is the forest is all. Take comfort in the constancy stasis promises. One bell rings softly in the branches, in the rapids, with the wind. A bell rings softly again and again.
Let the snow come down, the snow comes down. The ravens are stark against it. Let the trees creak audibly through the sharp chill air. Let the wind that howls compete with the wolves until both the wolves’ voices and the wind become static, white noise. The high, varying cries of the ravens rise stark against it. Let the rocks lay patient for a warm spring under the fresh, white snow. And let nothing shatter the ravens’ composure. My understanding appears stark against it.
Letters gleam between tree trunks; black ink smears white birch, drips black onto a frozen page, the snow temporarily marred by an alphabet. Language will get into the minds of these animals. Language will form, coalesce, and then shine in their sky. They will parse the forest into a rational discourse. They will learn an insatiable alphabet with which to remedy the strangeness of an unknowable world. How else to situate the raven’s cry at sunset? How else to describe the tiny drops of ice on the whiskers of the silent wolves watching us?
