What's leached the life from these lands?
Winter snuck in. True enough.
But that doesn't mean a bird can't hoot, caw, screech, or titter.
We may be too deep in the season for lizards to dart, or even schlep in tailless bluntness.
But surely squirrels, fluffy-tailed rodents, should be out, shoving aside leaf litter in search of sacred acorns?
I don't trust my mind in a soundless forest -
it leads me to believe that I tumbled back into the recesses of my mind, and only noticed [too late] that I forgot to load the soundtrack.
This entry was posted in poem, Poetry and tagged Forest, poem, poetry, Silence by B Gourley. Bookmark the permalink.
