It’s mostly when a child points to the sky and says “moon”
That I wonder what it felt like
In the beginning
When the names of things were surely songs
And the notes of them dripped off the tongues
Of all living beings
In a great chorus
In morning and night
And in the high afternoon sun.
Certainly, we were not meant to mutter and growl, to speak in low tones about mundane things
Clearly we are made to call down the stars from the heavens
So they lie in mountains around our feet
And our children playing in the twinkling drifts
Sparkle like sun on the river
And teach us to sing the true name of the moon.
What is that tiny buffalo? 