It speaks to me
as if I were a chatty friend.
Every breeze.
Every twig snapping.
Every leaf,
brown and crisp on the cold,
hard ground,
crunching underneath my feet.

It speaks to you too,
but only if you chose to listen.

A bird might be telling me to leave some seed out for his mate,
so they can enjoy the delicious feast I have put out in the feeder
together.

An ant might be pleading for a slice of my pumpkin pie
to feed its hungry family,
trying t keep warm
in a treacherous labyrinth of tunnels,
deep underground.

The pitiful scream of a mouse
in a moonlit forest
might be an owl telling me
that he has just ordered a late night feast
at the nearby café for him and his mate.

The waves might be telling me there is a storm coming,
or even that it is time to go home,
as they too crawl further up the sand to rest.

Or maybe a breeze is warning me to go inside
before it turns wild and wrathful.

It speaks to me.
Like whispers during a funeral.
Quietly.
You'll have to listen hard to hear its voices.
Breezes calling my name.
Over.
And over.
Tempting me.
Freeing my spirit.
Listen,
and you too will hear its voices.
Breezes calling your name.
Over.
And over.
It will speak to you,
but only if you'll listen.