Listening 

William Stafford

My father could hear a little animal step,

or a moth in the dark against the screen,

and every far sound pulled the listening out

into places the rest of us had never been.

More spoke to him from the soft wild night

than came to our porch for the family on the wind;

we watched him listen, and his face go keen,

till the walls of the world flared, widened.

My father brought in so much that we still stand

inviting the quiet by turning the face,

waiting for the time when the soft wild night

will reach to us here, from that other place.