Does it Make a Sound?

In Reply to Dr. Berkeley, or
Flouting Grice’s Maxim of Quantity

I am not aware of hearing anything
as I lie on my right side, prone
on the red granite gravel bar
of the Early Winters Creek ford.

But I know that crystal clear waters
course over my Vasque-shod feet.
I know that the heel of my left palm
is abraded and somewhat bruised.

I know that just seconds prior
I had been upright, two steps away,
and heard rustling in the underbrush.
I turned left with ursine expectations.

Instead, what flailed in the alder
were the roots of an undermined fir
long dead and aching to plummet.
Then I heard the rotten trunk crack.

In the blur above my wireframes
I descried the bole bow my way,
had time to think, “That’s no bear,”
spun right, flung myself to the bar.

Now a tree has fallen in the forest.
I was there; I surprisingly remain.
Yet, Dr. Berkeley, I did not hear it fall.
I apparently had better things to do.

About Greg Wright

I have worn many hats as a writer and editor over the years. Unlike my scholarly and journalistic work from the "old days" at Hollywood Jesus, Past the Popcorn, or SeaTac Blog, the writing here is of a more overtly personal and spiritual nature. I hope it provokes you as much as it provokes me.
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