The Songs They Leave Behind

Our cabin here on the lake has no insulation,

nothing ‘cept the walls and ceiling to block out

the outside, just enough to shut out the elements

but not the songs they leave behind,

this music of wind and rain and squirrels

scurrying across my roof, their footfalls soft

above my head in the early morning before I rise

and begin my own noise, my own music softly played

in this great ensemble that has become our lives.