For a moment,

let the words lie still

upon my tongue,

Allow my busy mind

to alter

this landscape of sound —

hum and wash of traffic

becomes the Ocean’s distant voice;

yawn of plane spells

the ache and groan of Summer —

that I might hear,

instead,

Her varied tongue

in the wind’s movement

through the trees

and over a landscape

that scatters and dashes with life;

that I might hear

the lap and memory

of water tasting its warmed banks,

and the downward spill

among smooth-skinned beeches

of Wood Thrush’ song;

that I might hear

Gray Catbird call my name.

Let my words spill away,

for a moment,

that when my voice

has stilled,

my silence

goes

unnoticed.

 

— C.Birde, 7/16