We all know such nights in early summer,
when to stand at the window motionless
is to merge in the stasis, to become as one
with the trees impregnated with the air round.

So perhaps in that moment we are as the ether, reaching
into the thick, warm substrate of the night,
though borne up always by the immense light being
of the wind through the bacilli of shadowed leaves.

But in fact this is nothing to the incessant raining
down of a starlight drenching the bone with
a muzzy bedazzlement, an all-about
buzzing and a weaving of our inmost threads.

The pions, the muons, even the fierce small particles
that burn on through most of matter itself,
clean through the earth whistling, and go on whistling,
always to the future, which is where they are

implicating and weaving far out in space —
if we listen, breath quiet, through every fiber —
to a song more haunting and delicate
than ever was moonlight that stunned these trees.