The John Cage Symphony

First, the trumpeting mountain.
The wise, winding road with its
venomous turns, slithering up,
then the motorbike, hunting through
the swarm of trees, the school
of leaves, such a thick flock
of verdance. Stop.

Switch the key
off.

Climb down into the fluttering clouds
that herd silent around.  If we breathe
a thing, does it become us?

The stream below is slippery, can't
be trusted, electric.  Watch it bubble
and nest. It's peppered with bits
of jade, ripe for the plucking.

Here, the insects choir, the birds
solo, and creatures I'll never name
spark their songs.

Now, the purring rain, sleep-
walking through the scene, warm
as an afternoon nap. It nuzzles
where it falls on my skin.  And last,

his arms: old bones with new tricks,
curled round my waist; his immortal chin
perched close on my shoulder,
his impeccable cloud-become breath
in my ear.