In A Grove Of Cedars Poem by Raymond Farrell

There were plenty of cedars, low and high
Growing in this less than fertile ground
I heard as passing by
How the wind stirred them into sound
Putting my hand over my brow
I searched for a songster in the highest bough
But not a bird to be found
Only a soft chirping sound
And where was the door with the rusty hinge
Or the man overcome by a painful twinge
They were nowhere
Then suddenly everywhere
Clear enough to put me out of breath
Loud enough to scare me half to death
To think sounds as distinct as these
Came from cedars rubbing in the breeze.