Monday, January 21, 2013
There is a continual pulsing
out here under the trees:
a form of white noise,
not from machines, but from
the grass and the dirt and the leaves
coming alive after rain. Birds
and tiny insects, hidden lizards
and all sorts of creatures I don't even guess
are swelling this noise, which is not
noise at all, it is active silence.
And the air is making it, rushing in and out
in long whispers as the earth breathes.
But there is no breeze, it is other
than wind; it is the planet's