Proverbial Provin

Here,

It rains pine needles.

Trees whisper tunes never heard,

birds echo their echo.

Here,

Sun paints moving portraits

along iridescent bark and dead

leaves pave trails unmarked.

Here,

Terminal buds dance in flow of air,

something red prances between moves,

while buzzing goes straight for my hair.

Here,

It is more quiet,

yet filled with sound.

Funny how clearly I hear myself with so little and so much around.