The first thing I heard
was the chorus.
The path had been there
all along.
Its stones were smooth.
It remembered
many feet.
Beyond the trees,
the horizon rested
beneath the sky.
Neither seemed to hurry.
The first chorus came
from the marsh.
Frogs sang
until the morning.
The path bent
toward the chorus.
So did the footprints.
Yet it continued
beyond.
I walked.
Beyond the reeds,
the chorus changed.
Finches crossed
from branch to branch.
The path continued.
Again, I walked.
Every chorus seemed
to become
the whole valley
while I stood
within it.
The nearer I stood,
the fewer voices
I could hear.
The rains departed.
The frogs did too.
The heat arrived.
Weeks later,
the rain returned.
Small mushrooms rose
through dead leaves.
None arrived early.
None remained late.
The rains returned.
So did the frogs.
So did the finches.
I never learned
what called them all.
The path continued.
Sometimes beside water.
Sometimes beneath shadow.
Sometimes where no chorus
could be heard again.
The higher I climbed,
the farther the valley
opened.
The farther it opened,
the more choruses
became one landscape.
The frogs still sang.
Finches still crossed.
Mushrooms still rose.
From where I stood,
one chorus no longer
filled the valley.
Beyond the ridge,
another became audible.
Then another.
And another.
I looked for
the end of the path.
Instead, I found
another valley.
I looked for
the edge of the horizon.
Instead, I found
more sky.
Far below,
new travelers
entered the valley.
The marsh found them
before I could.
The path bent gently.
So did their footsteps.
The first rains returned
the following year.
The frogs returned.
The finches crossed.
The mushrooms lifted.
Again.
Fresh footprints appeared.
I stopped.
I listened.
The chorus no longer
filled the valley.
I smiled.
Then
I walked on.
Nothing below
had become quieter.
The path bent
toward the chorus.
So did the footprints.
Yet it continued
beyond.
Only the horizon
had widened.
Above,
the sky.