Before he named the world, Adam heard
the whorled languages of ferns, the hiss
and pop of wood, the quips of birds, the pure
elucidation of rivers combing moss.
And he would sit and listen, jealous, thick
with muted love. One day, with no warning,
a cork unstopped his throat. Greedy, quick,
the names flowed out. He shouted, floundering
through green, freshening the world with terms.
It lasted days. When it was done, his tongue
was cracked. He crawled to drink, noting how firm
the earth, the bank. He owned it now. The songs
of birds were passionless. Cold quiet soaked
the woods. He begged the trees. Now nothing spoke.