Let the silence press;


Like a rising dough filling a bowl.

Until the gentlest breeze

Creates the worst racket,

Your own growling stomach,

Tribal drums

And the tentative hoots of an owl

A circus parade.


© TDR – 2018



Radio Silence

Radio Silence

When the wind died

He could feel the silence


There had to be a hawk.

Birds were down-

Huddled, gone;

Death in sight.

Silence has its own sound:

Thick winter water

Trickling over pebbles

Under a shell of ice.

Cold trees cracking, breathing.

The lazy wash of his own blood

Coursing, flowing

For the time being.