Silence

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Let the silence press;

Enveloping,

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

 

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Radio Silence

Radio Silence

When the wind died

He could feel the silence

Pressing.

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.