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by Judy Ray
Long before the stringing of guitars
this music played along shores,
sailed beyond sky, rose from deep
green and birthed our music mimicry,
our myths of ocean odyssey.
From the first, this music
has flowed and sighed beneath
the chatter of our dying languages.
We toss our flint verbs in landfills,
clear cut deep noun forests,
smother horizon’s vision in toxins.
And when we lose language,
we can lose anger, too,
and bathe in silence in the sea’s song.