When there is silence
I hear the sound of distant machinery
a city or a freeway
or perhaps it is the engine of a plane
grumbling from cloud to cloud
on its way across to here.
Then the sound goes away
as if it had never been in my ear.
I notice birds go past
making their small sentences in the air:
talk of insects or seeds, maybe a comment
on the welcome shade in a tree.
Like a foreigner I lost interest.
Like a tourist I want more.
Like a visitor I feel intrusive.
Like this, I stand here, on pause,
time tucked away in my pocket for once.
It holds its breath and closes its eyes
as it does at such times, fearing
it might never get going again.
Like a child, I think of a question.
My hand goes out to the ignition.
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