On the porch

On the porch


to sirens and the surf of traffic--

No one told us

the air could be this still

that you could hear the spaces

between bird cries

or the soft flapping

of leaves in the Gingko.

No one told us

that air ferns whisper

secrets even when no one

is there to hear.

If you sit still long enough

you can hear night approaching--

a lonesome moon

in a cold black bowl

where billions of stars live and die

with or without us.

No one told us time

could grind down

like a flattened stone

that whole days could drop

from the almanacs

and the aqueducts fill with tears.

In this new infected silence

I’m listening hard

for yesterday’s band practice

that once drifted over the hydrangeas

for the street games of children--

but I think I hear coyotes

howling on the Golden Gate Bridge.

And now I hear the chop chop

of the crime copter lopping

circles around us from another

high speed chase in the neighborhood.

And laid over it all

the burbling coo of a morning dove

soothing its mate in the shadows

filled with shards of a shattered egg.

--Dixie S., Adult