I have paused to sit on a rocky bank along the
Kaw.
Wind-driven waves gurgle below my extended legs.
My shoes took on some sticky mud to get here.
The west wind carries the car sounds from the
bridge.
White noise.
An almost steady droning, occasionally unmuffled,
distant.
The swallow-tailed birds repeat their high calls
as they fly in front of me.
Killdeer is the name I know, but maybe these are
terns.
A gust of wind is caught in the curls of my ear.
A sound check –
a blowing into the microphone to see if it is
live.
More of those killdeers, I’ll call them,
they flitter and call.
I can’t make out what they are trying to say.
But in my world, this is what passes for quiet:
A distant drone,
a gurgle,
a bird call, now and then.
And the wind blowing across my ears.
No comments:
Post a Comment