Language by Camille T. Dungy

Silence is one part of speech, the war cry of wind down a mountain pass another. A stranger's voice echoing through lonely valleys, a lover's voice rising so close it's your own tongue: these are keys to cipher, the way the high hawk's key unlocks the throat of the sky and the coyote's yip knocks it shut, the way the aspens' bells conform to the breeze while the rapid's drum defines resistance. Sage speaks with one voice, pinyon with another. Rock, wind her hand, water her brush, spells and then scatters her demands. Some notes tear and pebble our paths. Some notes gather: the bank we map our lives around.

— Black nature by Camille T. Dungy (Page 55)