Thursday Poem - Straight Talk From Fox

Listen says fox it is music to run
    over the hills to lick
dew from the leaves to nose along
    the edges of the ponds to smell the fat
ducks in their bright feathers but
    far out, safe in their rafts of
sleep. It is like
    music to visit the orchard, to find
the vole sucking the sweet of the apple, or the
    rabbit with his fast-beating heart. Death itself
is a music. Nobody has ever come close to
    writing it down, awake or in a dream. It cannot
be told. It is flesh and bones
    changing shape and with good cause, mercy
is a little child beside such an invention. It is
    music to wander the black back roads
outside of town no one awake or wondering
    if anything miraculous is ever going to
happen, totally dumb to the fact of every
    moment's miracle. Don't think I haven't
peeked into windows. I see you in all your seasons
    making love, arguing, talking about God
as if he were an idea instead of the grass,
    instead of the stars, the rabbit caught
in one good teeth-whacking hit and brought
    home to the den. What I am, and I know it, is
responsible, joyful, thankful. I would not
    give my life for a thousand of yours.

Mary Oliver, from Redbird